


Uncountably Infinite

by GoddessofBirth



Series: Factoring Out Binomials [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Adult Intervention, Angst, Choices, Claiming, Confrontation, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Isaac is a messed up puppy, M/M, One sided Derek/Stiles, Ownership, Pack Dynamics, Past Abuse, Psychological issues, Scent Marking, Sheriff Stilinski is Awesome, Smut, The Brain is Mightier than the Fang, Violence, and so is Stiles in his own way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all goes to shit, of course, because things always do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Finite Element of Natural Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> Please make sure you read the tags for things that might be triggery.

It all goes to shit, of course.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

“Wow, we have really got to stop meeting like this, guys. It's almost cliché these days,” Stiles snarks, as he swings a baseball bat lazily back and forth beside his leg. He's standing in front of the staircase, the lone sentry at this entry point, and Isaac and Erica are looming in the front door, identical expressions of violent anticipation painted across their faces.

 

Of course things end up this way, because things always do. Lydia and Allison are the first to find the katsune, find the half feral fourteen year old huddled in the woods, gnawing on far too fresh pituitary glands. As far as they can discern, she's been on her own for years, after a pair of hunters butcher her family as she hides in the closet. Her last kill is a fifteen year old Junior Varsity football player, but Scott – and by extension Allison and Lydia – think she can be taught, can be saved.

 

Derek, of course, thinks otherwise.

 

It's the Battle of Alpha Hill all over again, only Allison's already run upstairs to protect the window of the safe room from Boyd, which leaves only Stiles to man the front door.

 

Erica's smile is all shark, and she runs her tongue over her teeth. “Out of the way, Stiles. You already know how this ends.”

 

“With us kicking your asses? Yeah, pretty sure that's how this will go.”

 

She just grins wider and takes a step into the room, while Stiles takes a matching step back. “Hey, hey, hey! What happened to you guys having to keep your paws to yourself?”

 

Erica pauses and throws a look over her shoulder at Isaac, then takes another step. “I don't know where you would have heard such a thing. And trust me, true or not, today is an exception to the rule.”

 

He swings the bat as hard as he can, but she catches it, inches from her face, and uses it to jerk him to her. Her hand fists in his collar and as she lifts him off his feet, he's given a perfect view of Isaac.

 

Isaac -

 

\- who does nothing, just leans against the doorway and smirks as Erica flings Stiles across the room and into a wall.

 

Something – he'll find out later that the homeowner was hanging pictures and left an inch long hook poking out from the wall – pierces him in the small of his back and tears its way up his spine, leaving a white hot trail as he slides down the wall. He's glad of the pain, and the fear, because it keeps him from concentrating on the thing that shatters inside him, breaking into a million pieces. Because he's known, right? Known exactly where Isaac would fall if battle lines were drawn? He can't be such an idiot as to have deluded himself otherwise. So it shouldn't hurt more than the blood dripping out of his back, shouldn't hurt more than the wrench in his shoulder, shouldn't feel like his lungs are being turned inside out.

 

But apparently knowing and seeing are two different things, because it does – Jesus fucking Christ it _does_.

 

He scrabbles weakly for the bat, laying a scant two feet beyond his reach, and Erica plants a hand on his chest, raises the other with claws extended. He squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation, but the blow never falls.

 

“Erica.”

 

He opens his eyes to see Isaac's hand wrapped around Erica's wrist, his eyes glowing gold in the dim light. And he should be glad Stiles is two seconds away from writhing on the ground in agony, because if he wasn't, he'd find a pencil and poke Isaac's fucking eyes out, just so he won't have to see them; so he won't have to be reminded that the last time Isaac looked at him with those eyes, he was licking his way across Stiles' chest to bury his face in his neck.

 

The bastard. The fucking  _bastard_ . How dare he?

 

“Go help Boyd. I'll finish up.”

 

Erica nods and sprints up the stairs, and as soon as she's gone, everything about Isaac just... _crumples_ as he drops to his knees next to Stiles.

 

“You moron. Why can't you just stay out of this?” He's touching Stiles' neck and his arms and his chest, and Stiles realizes he's looking for injuries. He sniffs at the air. “You're bleeding. Where are you bleeding?”

 

A howl, followed by the sound of glass breaking, comes from upstairs, and Isaac jerks, his head following the noise. “Just stay. Please. Don't try to get back up.”

 

Stiles almost has a hold on the part of him that desperately wants to pass out, so he shakes his head. “You know I can't, man.”

 

“You can.”

 

Stiles pushes himself up a little higher on the wall. “Can't let you guys kill her. Derek's wrong, Isaac. You know he's  _wrong_ .”

 

Isaac just stares at him, his hands hovering over Stiles' face. “You  _know_ , Isaac.”

 

Someone screams, and it shatters whatever bubble they've been working in. Isaac whines and pushes his face into Stiles' neck and then jumps to his feet. “Stay down.  _Please_ .” He runs up the stairs and the scream breaks into growls and snarls

 

Stiles rolls over onto his stomach and painfully drags himself toward the baseball bat.

 

* * * * * * * * * 

 

For the very first time, they learn what it's really like to lose.

 

Not because Derek's pack beats them – that will be a cold day in hell – but because while they're all busy in-fighting and scrabbling amongst themselves, Chris Argent arrives, and with one well aimed shot, puts a bullet in between the katsune's eyes. She doesn't even have time to look shocked before she crumples to the floor. The second the bullet leaves Chris's gun, Derek's pack disperses, and as soon as the katsune – Mary. She had a name, Stiles reminds himself. Mary – falls, Chris looks over the rest of their ragtag crew, his disgust clearly evident on his face.

 

“Get out of here. All of you.” When Allison starts to slink by him, he grabs her by the arm. “Except you. It's time you learned what goes into cleaning up you and your little friends' messes.” The hide-a-body game Mr. Argent makes Allison play is enough to have the bile rising in Stiles' throat when he hears about it.

 

They end up at Dr. Deaton's, with Stiles lied out on his stomach, on the operating table, as Dr. Deaton cuts his shirt from his body.

 

“You're lucky this wasn't a couple of centimeters to the right. You could have damaged your spine.” The slash runs the entire length of his back, then curves out at the base of his neck to the tip of his shoulder, where the hook ripped clean. Dr. Deaton shoots him full of local anesthesia and begins stitching him up. “This is going to scar, and it won't be pretty. It's too deep, and, well, it cut jagged. But I wouldn't worry too much. All the girls I've known like a few scars on their men.”

 

Stiles laughs weakly, because if he doesn't, he might cry, and he's not going to do that in front of Scott, not when Scott is already close to tears himself.

 

He plays hooky for the next two days. Doesn't go to school. Doesn't go to lacrosse practice. Most definitely does  _not_ bother looking out his bedroom window. He spends a lot of time on his stomach, a lot of time trying not to scratch at the way the stitches itch and pull. Scott texts him to let him know he and Derek are working out a new truce – of course they are; they always are – and Stiles doesn't bother texting him back. He feels numb now, like everything is washing over him and floating around him, but nothing is actually touching him.

 

So this is what it feels like to lose.

 

It's the second night, at 8:29PM, when Isaac slides his window open and climbs in. Stiles is curled up on his side, shirtless because the fabric rubs against his stitches, and he shakes his head and buries his face in his pillow.

 

“Go away, Isaac.”

 

Isaac pauses uncertainly, but then comes to sit on the edge of his bed. “You haven't been at school.”

 

“Gee, how observant.”

 

Isaac reaches a hand out toward Stiles' face, but Stiles jerks back before he can actually touch him. Isaac flinches, looks confused.

 

“What's wrong?”

 

Stiles can't help it. He laughs, sharp and bitter and short as he rolls into a sitting position to face Isaac. “What's wrong? What's  _wrong_ ? You're joking, right? I  _thought_ you were  _going_ to  _kill_ me. Or watch while Erica did it. Is there nothing wrong with that picture for you? That I should even have to wonder that about somebody who's had their mouth on my  _dick_ ?”

 

Isaac rears back like Stiles has physically punched him, horror sketched over his face. “What? No...no! N-n-never! I never would have - ! How could you even... I  _stopped_ Erica!”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “What would you have done if she hadn't listened, Isaac?”

 

Isaac's mouth is stretched wide with fang before Stiles can even blink. “I would have  _stopped_ her.”

 

Stiles is tired. He's so tired and he just wants to sleep and he just wants to pretend he didn't see a fourteen year old girl shot in the head. “Why should I believe you? You stood and watched...hell, you freaking  _grinned_ while she...”

 

“I had to! I had to. If I didn't, Derek would -”

 

Stiles cuts him off. “Right. Derek. It's always Derek, isn't it? Swear to God, Isaac, sometimes I don't know if I'm making out with you or with him.”

 

Isaac's head is shaking frantically. “No, it's me. It's me!” His voice is rising, becoming panicked, and he grabs Stiles' hand and puts it on his cheek. “See, Stiles? It's me. Just me.  _Please!_ Don't...please don't.”

 

“Stop!” Stiles wrenches his hand from Isaac's, and then winces as something pops and pain shoots down his back. The wound is far better than it was two days ago – Stiles is almost certain Dr. Deaton sprinkled one of his just-this-side-of-magic powders in the cut before he stitched it – but he's still moving gingerly around it. “Isaac, I don't think I can -”

 

But Isaac isn't paying attention anymore. Instead, he's crowding into Stiles space, taking long sniffs of air, the panic shifting to something far more lupine and intense. “You're hurt. I remember now. You got hurt. Let me see.”

 

His hands are on Stiles' shoulders and Stiles bats at his arms. “Hey...hey! Back off!” He's too naked for this, too naked for Isaac's skin to be against him and his palms pressed lightly on his clavicles; his traitorous body wants him to say  _yes, okay, everything is fine, just kiss me_ . “We're having a fight, remember?”

 

“We're not fighting,” Isaac says absently. “Just let me see. I'll leave after, I promise. Swear.”

 

It's easier to just go along, and if it means Isaac will leave, then he can do this. “Fine.” He flops over on his stomach. “Happy now?”

 

Isaac carefully peels the bandages away.  When he's fully uncovered the damage, the whimper that comes from Isaac's mouth is terrible, whining and low and pained, and before Stiles can protest, he's straddled his hips and braced his hands on either side of Stiles' ribs. “I could kill her. I could kill her. Do you want me to kill her?”

 

“What? No!” He's aware Isaac is flickering in and out of control, swinging wildly from one extreme to the other; he doesn't want to examine why he doesn't feel any fear, when common sense dictates this should probably be scaring the crap out of him.

 

“Are you sure?” Stiles is just confirming that yes, indeed, he is firmly against the murder of one Erica Reyes, when Isaac bends down and starts licking at his wound. Not on it, exactly – of which Dr. Deaton would approve, since he very firmly lectures Stiles about not getting his stitches wet before he lets them leave his office – but just to either side. On his spine, and to the right; short, soft licks, trading sides back and forth as he travels from the base of his spine, up toward his neck. In between the strokes, he's whispering, over and over.

 

“ _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...”_

 

When he reaches the place where Stiles' stitches curve to his shoulder, he traces the path in two long, broad swipes, and then, careful to keep his weight on his hands and not on Stiles' back, he covers him, fitting his face into the space between his shoulder and neck.

 

“Please...I don't want to go.”

 

This isn't about tonight, Stiles understands that, and his hand shakes as he reaches back to card his fingers through Isaac's hair, tugging, just a little, when he reaches the ends. Isaac's whine is tinged with happiness this time, and Stiles turns enough so that Isaac can find his mouth, can kiss him slow and deep and full of drugging pleasure.

 

But Stiles also meant what he said earlier, so he finally pulls back and licks his lips. “I can't do this, not tonight. Just...you're watching tomorrow, right?”

 

Isaac nods hesitantly.

 

“Okay, tomorrow. We'll figure it all out tomorrow. Okay?” Isaac's breath hitches in that funny, too fast pattern again, so Stiles pulls him in until their foreheads are touching. “I _promise_ , okay? I don't want to go either.”

 

“Okay,” Isaac finally says, then carefully rolls off Stiles and stands up. All at once he freezes, then cocks his head to the side for a long minute.

 

“What?”

 

After another minute Isaac relaxes and shakes his head. “Nothing.” He gives Stiles a tentative grin. “Tomorrow.”

 

Stiles latches his window behind him and curls back up on his side. It's hours before he sleeps, before he figures out exactly what it is he wants, and what he's willing to compromise, and what has to happen for this thing to work.

 

Later, he'll wish he'd spent the time sleeping, because sixteen year old boys really have no place trying to control a future that's already happening, and the rest would have been more useful.

 

He falls asleep without realizing it, and wakes up feeling hopeful, for the first time in two days. Isaac will be waiting for him, so he sprints (hobbles) to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, before throwing his window open and sticking his head out.

 

He slams it shut almost as fast, before very, very slowly pushing it up again.

 

There is no Isaac under his window.

 

Instead there is Erica.

 

“Good morning, Stiles.” She smiles, not a single hair out of place, and lips painted a perfect murder red. “Did you miss me?”


	2. The Transitive Property of Equalities

“Erica.” He tries for casual and totally fails. “Shouldn't you be, you know, getting your beauty sleep?”

 

“Nah,” she shrugs, “I don't need sleep to be beautiful. So, tell me. How's the back?”

 

_Bitch_ . “Just peachy.” It's not a lie. It feels far better than it had last night. He really, really needs to get Deaton to let him in on his secrets. Maybe take him in as his werewolf shaman apprentice, or whatever he was calling it. That could be useful. “So, what are you doing here?”

 

“You're not stupid, Stiles, so don't act like you are. That's just dull. You know why I'm here.” Then she smiles silkily, dangerously. “Or are you trying to get at something else? Now, what could it be? Hmm... Oh!” she widens her eyes dramatically, grin destroying any pretense that she might actually be surprised.

 

“Oh,” she moues, all false sympathy, “are you wondering where Isaac is?” She taps a finger on her lips. “Let's just say he's been found...unsuitable...for this job.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Isaac,” she says, as she tilts her head and grins nastily, “has been very, _very_ naughty. Hasn't anybody ever told you you should close your shades at night, Stiles?”

 

A deep, black pit opens up in his stomach, while a very bad feeling creeps down his spine.  _Oh fuck_ . He pulls his tongue from the roof of his suddenly too dry mouth. “Have no clue what you're talking about.”

 

“Stiles. Please. Do I really need to give you a graphic description of our little pup Isaac begging you to please, please, please not send him away?”

 

He backs away from the window so fast he trips over his feet and falls on his ass, back aching and stomach roiling violently at the thought of Erica seeing them like that, seeing  _Isaac_ like that. There's dread in there, too, and the need to find Isaac right this fucking second. He's scrabbling at the desk for his car keys when Erica's voice comes laughing through the window.

 

“Uh uh uh, Stiles. No field trips today to visit Isaac. He's really not up to it. In fact, I'm not sure he's going to be getting up today at all.”

 

He can't even be sure if half of what she's saying is real. That's Erica's thing – finding soft spots, taunting her chosen victims with partial truths or full lies, pushing until she gets a reaction. But whatever has happened, it's bad; he doesn't doubt that, just like he doesn't doubt that there's no way he can take down the three werewolves that are probably standing between he and Isaac. He fumbles around until he finds his phone and sends a text to Scott.

 

**Got a problem. Can you come over?**

 

His phone chimes a reply almost immediately.

 

**meeting derek & boyd @ starbucks. come here instead?**

 

Crap, crap, crap. He'd forgotten Scott and Derek's little patch up meeting, and the fact that Scott had  _ finally _ started taking his advice and making them meet him in well lit, public places. On the other hand, though...

 

**No thx. Crap coffee. How long's it gonna take this time?**

 

He's already digging around in his top drawer when he hits send, and is pulling a batting glove out when Scott texts back.

 

**couple hrs? argents coming 2.**

 

Yeah, that cluster fuck was definitely tying them up for awhile, and while normally he might feel sorry for Scott and/or be guilted into showing up to mediate, he's instead balancing precariously on the edge of his computer chair in order to reach the farthest, dustiest corner of his closet. When he climbs back down, clutching a small, plastic container, he sends one more text to Scott.

 

**LMK when you're done. Good Luck _._**

 

He slips the baseball glove on and pulls the lid off the Tupperware.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

“Hey, Erica! Fetch!”

 

He lobs the baseball right at her head, and isn't remotely surprised when her hand shoots out and grabs it, just inches from her face. She rolls her eyes and tosses her perfect, blonde hair.

 

“Really, Stiles? I thought I told you not to be boring.”

 

He leans over the window sill and shakes his head. “Are you ever not gonna fall for that one? You guys really are the stupidest pack ever.” He has the satisfaction of watching her haughty, mean girl mask dissolve into panic, half a second before she collapses to the ground, a thin film of sticky goo coating her hand.

 

He's a human running with wolves; he'd be an idiot if he didn't have a few tricks up his sleeve that even Scott doesn't know about. Things like creeping back to the scene of their last confrontation with Jackson the kanima, before he gets his big boy pants and turns into Jackson the werewolf, and collecting all the gooey bits of kanima juice that got flung around. There's not a lot to be found, enough for maybe one shot, but he keeps in nonetheless, stores it away.

 

That he promptly forgets about it in the shitstorm that follows isn't the point; it's not like he's ever planning to actually use it – having been a victim of said paralysis, he isn't eager to pass the experience along. It's just a backup, something for a rainy day. And today? It's definitely raining.

 

He throws on his shoes and hoodie before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and running out the the door. At the last minute, he takes a precious few seconds to detour into his dad's office and rifle through the file cabinet, then heads to the backyard. Erica is lying in the same place, her eyes wide and staring, and he grabs her hand and starts dragging her toward the tool shed. His back twinges, and he hopes he's not ripping any stitches out.

 

“I'm really sorry about this. Okay, no, that's a lie. You're a real tool, so it's kind of fitting you get to hang out with them for a couple hours. Oh, and also? Creepering on people's private time? Gross. So, I don't really feel bad about this, either.” He slides the shed doors open and pulls her inside, then retrieves a pocket knife from his backpack. He uses his gloved hand to flip her palm over and then cuts a shallow gash in her palm, just deep enough that when he rubs the venom over it, it can sink directly to her bloodstream.

 

He peels the glove off and lets it drop to the ground. “You should be good as gold in a couple of hours, maybe three. I guess I could leave the light on for you, but I'm feeling a little vindictive.” He closes her in the dark without a backward glance, and as he's bolting the door – not that it will keep her in, but it's just one more layer for her to have to break through – it vaguely occurs to him that maybe he should be bothered that doing this _isn't_ bothering him, that he hadn't hesitated before slicing into Erica's palm, that he doesn't feel remotely guilty about rendering helpless a girl that's been helpless so many times before. But he doesn't, and he doesn't care that he doesn't. The only thing he cares about is finding Isaac, and now she's no longer standing in the way.

 

Derek's secret lair is the worst kept secret in all of Beacon Hills. He and Scott have known about it forever, of course, and he's pretty sure Mr. Argent knows where it is as well, and has just been politely pretending he doesn't. Mr. Argent's good about things like that. Everything is still when he pulls into the train yard, and there's only one dingy light bulb burning at the head of the stairs as he starts to descend.

 

“Isaac?”

 

There's no answer, except the echo of his own voice.

 

“Isaac,” he tries again, a little louder, when he's halfway between the top and bottom of the stairs, but still gets no response.

 

He's at the bottom when he yells the third time. “ _Isaac!”_

 

“You shouldn't be here.” Isaac's voice is dull and flat, and it comes at the same time Stiles finally sees him. He's curled up on the bare concrete floor, next to one of the thick columns that ostensibly keep the roof from caving in. For one wild, crazy moment, Stiles thinks hunters must have found him, must have shot him full of wolfsbane, because even in the dim light, Stiles can see his torso is completely torn up, shirt shredded and bloody – the same shirt he left Stiles' house in last night – and he's...he's _bleeding_. The moment passes quickly, as Stiles realizes he's looking at claw marks, and remembers the fight at the ice rink; remembers Scott not healing from the wounds of an Alpha.

 

“Jesus freaking Christ,” he hisses, and then he's kneeling next to Isaac, touching his hair. “What did he do to you?”

 

“You shouldn't be here,” Isaac repeats. “You should go home, Stiles.”

 

“Look at me. Hey, look at me.”

 

Isaac rolls his head sluggishly, until he's facing Stiles, but even then, Stiles isn't sure he's actually seeing him, or looking past him. “What. Happened.”

 

Isaac blinks, and then grits his teeth and hunches, one of his hands twitching like he wants to grab at his side, before it drops back to the floor. “Erica knew something was off. Derek already suspected. She followed me to your house. He was waiting when I got here. I didn't shower. I didn't shower, and I smelled just like you. I wanted to smell – ” His voice drifts off and he turns his face back down so that his cheek rests on the rough of the floor.

 

There's this kind of anger rolling around in Stiles, that's making his fists clench and his teeth grit, and reminds him of the months after his mother died and he went around picking fights with anyone who seemed remotely willing to give him one. He should have punched Erica before he left her. Hard.

 

“Why? Why would he do this? I mean, yeah, I know you said...but --” This is crazy, and makes no sense. Derek's never even hurt Scott this badly, even when they're nowhere close to being on the same team. Isaac's supposed to be his family. Like his kid or something, right?

 

His kid whose arm he broke for complaining.

 

Stiles' stomach sours. “Okay, yeah, so I know you weren't supposed to...whatever...but does he really care so much that you didn't have his permission? Are you like, were-promised to somebody or something? I mean, is it the whole sort of rival pack thing? Or because I'm human?” Even though he's _seen_ the fear in Isaac, known how unreasonable Derek can be when crossed, he really, _really_ hasn't understood the risk Isaac was taking.

 

Turns out, he hasn't understood anything.

 

“He doesn't care about me. It's not about me.” Isaac's voice is dead, just _dead,_ no emotion at all. “It's never been about me. How can you not know that? It's all about you.”

 

Maybe Stiles fell and hit his head and just doesn't remember it, because nothing Isaac says is making any sense. “What?”

 

“It's all about you. No one can touch _you_.”

 

“Hey,” Stiles says softly, “You're gonna have to speak in small words or something, because I'm really not getting whatever it is you're trying to say.”

 

Stiles making fun of himself almost never fails to pull at least a smirk from Isaac, but this time there isn't even a lip twitch. He voice is just tired as he drops a verbal bomb the size of New York City. “Only Derek is allowed to touch you like that. Because you're his. I touched what was his. He needed to make sure I didn't do it again. I told you he wouldn't like it.”

 

Stiles falls back on his ass. “I...but...I don't...wha...?” He literally cannot form a complete thought, because, swear to God, this isn't making any fucking sense at all. He tries, he really does...does a quick trip down memory lane and his interactions with Derek, but he just can't see it. Sure he'd had that stupid little crush on Derek, but that was dead and gone months ago, and Derek, as Alpha, has never shown the slightest inclination he's ever seen Stiles as anything more than just another tool to use.

 

“That's bullshit, Isaac.” Even as he's trying to deal with whatever mindfuck this is, he can't keep his hands from going to Isaac, lifting his shirt to try to get a better look at his wounds, and wincing when it sticks and then rips away, and Isaac flinches in. “When the hell did he supposedly decide this?”

 

Isaac doesn't even try to push Stiles' hands away as he pokes and prods at the claw marks up Isaac's side, even though Stiles _knows_ it has to hurt; he just keeps staring vacantly through Stiles. “How would I know when? It was before me. But I've known since the jail. You should have known then, too. He's told us _all_.” Something in that last sentence hits Stiles as odd, but his brain is already too overloaded to figure it out. And even though his mouth keeps going, his mind is already one hundred miles away. Because Isaac will need bandages, and some kind of disinfectant. Some of the tears are starting to heal, but some of them look wrong; look puffy. They need to get on the move.

 

“No, no, no. That's nuts! That was just -”

 

“Him telling me he would tear me in half if I hurt you without his permission.”

 

That makes Stiles blink. “Wait. Shouldn't it be he would tear you in half if you hurt me, period?”

 

“Sometimes we have to be kept in line. Sometimes you have to be kept in line.” The words fall from Isaac's mouth by rote, like it's something he's heard so many times he has it memorized. Stiles doesn't want to know who he learned it from.

 

“That is fucked,” he mutters. “That is absolutely _fucked_.” He feels the comforting weight of his keys in his pocket. At least they have a way to escape.

 

“He's waiting for you to figure it out, so you'll come to him.”

 

“Um. Okay. That's not creepy at all.” He rubs at his eyes. “Why didn't you tell me?” He would have at least understood he needed to work harder to protect Isaac. He would have taken it more seriously. He would have fucking run Derek over with his Jeep. Yeah, that one sounded good.

 

Isaac's expression changes for the first time. He looks at Stiles like he's just tried to answer an advanced calculus equation using 2 + 2 = 4. “Because then you would go to him. Because then you would choose Derek.”

 

“The hell?” In what freaking _world_ \- ? “Why the hell would I do that?”

 

Isaac says it so simply, like he's never considered anything different. “Because he's the Alpha.”

 

“Yeah, and he looks great in a wifebeater. So what? He's also a sadistic psycho who's tried to kill half my friends and gets off on using the other half! Not really a competition there, you know?”

 

Isaac grins with no humor. “I'm a psycho, Stiles.”

 

“Yeah, but not a sadistic one. And I like you better. You know what, it doesn't...it doesn't matter what Derek thinks. I can't...I can't even deal with that right now. More important things, you know?” Like getting Isaac out of here before Derek turns up. Like figuring out some way to keep this from ever happening again. Like reminding himself he actually can't go around killing people, even if they really deserve it. Even if he bets the Argents would totally help him.

 

He jumps to his feet. “Okay, come on, let's get out of here. I'll get you fixed up and we'll figure this thing out.” He remembers telling Isaac the same thing last night; it's funny how it turns out that part was already decided. He apparently made his choice a long time ago, he just didn't know it. “Just, grab your bag or something? You'll probably want clothes.” Isaac's not coming back to this hellhole, not even over Stiles' dead body.

 

He takes two steps before he realizes Isaac hasn't moved. “Come on. Get up! We have to go!”

 

Isaac stares at him blankly, before curling back in on himself, hand cradling the wound on his side. Stiles crouches back down and carefully shakes his shoulder.

 

“Isaac,” he makes sure to enunciate clearly, and calm the urgency in his tone. “We need to get out of here.”

 

“Go where? Do what?”

 

“Jesus, Isaac, _anywhere_ but here.”

 

Isaac's laugh is brittle and he shakes his head. “I don't belong anywhere else.” He shrugs Stiles' hand off. “Don't you get it, you idiot? I'm the monster. He made me, and now I'm his.”

 

That fucking book. That goddamn  _fucking book_ . Stiles is going to burn that thing. “Screw that! You're not his. You're  _yours_ .”

 

Isaac's face shows zero comprehension. Stiles takes a deep breath and closes his eyes; swallows hard and gathers his courage. Right or wrong, he already knows what he's going to do, and he already knows that even though there's something in it that's absolutely twisted, it's also absolutely  _true_ . But he needs Isaac to understand it's true, too; to believe that Stiles is telling him the truth.

 

He opens his eyes and looks directly at Isaac. “You're. Not. His. You're yours.” Isaac's expression doesn't change, so Stiles hardens his jaw and continues. “And you're  _mine._ ” Something flickers across Isaac's eyes, and Stiles gives a small nod. “Aren't you? Derek might have made you, but I  _stole_ you. Didn't I? I stole you. You're yours, and you're mine, and we made you into something new. Something  _ours_ . We don't belong to him.”

 

The combination of fear and hope and confusion that chases across Isaac's face is killing Stiles, and he wants to lie down beside him, wrap his body around him and whisper secrets in his ear. But there isn't time, there isn't time. He can practically hear the invisible tick of a clock as the time he's bought them slips by. It will have to wait. It has to.

 

He stands and holds his hand out. “Now you're going to get up, get your crap, and we're getting out of here.”

 

It's another five seconds before Isaac slowly nods and puts his hand in Stiles'. Stiles pulls him to his feet and wraps an arm around his waist when he sways. Standing, the damage Derek has inflicted stands out even more starkly, and Stiles' entire body trembles with anger, made worse by the fact Isaac is obviously trying to stifle any sounds of pain; Stiles wonders how young he was when he learned that trick. They stumble to a random subway car and Isaac grabs his backpack and nothing else.

 

“We can't go back to your house.”

 

Stiles has already come to the same conclusion. “I know. Come on, let's go.”

 

He has a half-baked plan, just an idea. There's no way to avoid a confrontation, but if Stiles can just control where, and _how..._ Derek might be delusional, might be a psycho, but he's not stupid, either. If he doesn't have the opportunity to wolf out, he'll have to listen to reason. He'll _have_ to. It's ridiculous. People don't own people.

 

Of course, there's also a good chance Stiles is the delusional one, here, but it's the best odds he has, and whatever happens needs to occur far away from Beacon Hills and collateral damage. He peels out of the train yard, while Isaac rests his head on the window and stares out the glass. When the jeep hits the Interstate, Stiles calls his dad.

 

“Hey, dad.”

 

“Son.” He doesn't call his dad at work unless it's important, so he doesn't bother with niceties.

 

“Listen, dad. Look. Somebody got hurt, okay? And I need to help them, okay?”

 

His dad cuts in. “Is this about Isaac?”

 

Isaac has to be able to hear his dad's side of the conversation, but he doesn't react at all. “Shi – sorry. Yeah. Okay, yeah. Just...he got hurt. And I need to help him, so, look, I'm gonna be -”

 

“He got hurt, or somebody hurt him?”

 

He presses his tongue against his teeth as he tries to think, to decide which would be the better answer, but he's lied so much to his dad since Scott was bitten. He just doesn't want to lie anymore. “Somebody hurt him. But I can't....I'm not going to tell you who. I just need you to trust me. And I know you don't have any reason to, okay, I _know_. I know I've been like the shittiest...sorry, the crappiest son of all time lately. And I'm sorry. I really, really am. You have no idea how sorry I am. But I just need you to. I can fix it, but I just...I just need you to trust me on this one. Please?”

 

Why the hell is he crying? When the hell did that happen? His free hand in resting on the steering wheel, and when something brushes his wrist he jumps, almost drops the phone. Isaac's still hunched up in the passenger's seat, still staring determinedly out the window, but his fingers are resting over Stiles'. Stiles takes a deep breath, blows it out again. His dad is silent for a long time on the other end of the line.

 

“What do you need me to do?”

 

Okay. Okay. One thing is going right. “Um...actually...actually nothing. I really need you not to do anything. We're gonna be gone for a couple of nights, but I can't tell you where. And I just need you to believe me that I'm not doing anything illegal, and I'm not being stupid, and you don't need to worry about me. Also, I took the emergency credit card.”

 

“You're going to be gone. For a couple of nights. And you're asking me not to worry _.”_

 

“Yes. Yes.”

 

“And when you come back, you're telling me exactly what happened. Every single detail _.”_

 

Isaac's hand tightens reflexively, before loosening, and this time it's Stiles who says nothing.

 

“ _Stiles_.” And Stiles can hear it in his tone of voice, that if he doesn't get this promise, Stiles isn't getting what he wants. And so he does what he always ends up doing - he lies.

 

“I promise. But, um...Dad? If I call you...If I call you, you'll come, right? Just...just in case?” He hopes his voice doesn't sound as scared as he feels like he does, but he must have pulled it off, because he hears his dad sigh.

 

“Of course I will. You know that. But I want it known that I do not approve of this, and I am not happy about this. But I'll give you this one. Be careful. Tell Isaac I said hello. _”_

 

“I will.”

 

“Stiles, I love you _._ ”

 

“Love you too, Dad.”

 

As soon as he hangs up, Isaac moves his hand away, and Stiles wipes his face dry.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Forty five minutes later, he pulls off a random exit and drives until he finds a drugstore.

 

“Wait here,” he tells Isaac, and then runs in, grabs a first aid kit, and is back in the jeep within five minutes. Two minutes later they're back on the road. No stopping, not yet. Not until they reach the city.

 

Fifteen minutes later his phone chimes, and there's a text from Scott.

 

**hey, jst finished w Derek. meet @ your place?**

 

Their lead time is up. He considers, he really does, but the less people involved, the better.

 

**Can't.** He hesitates, and then punches out,  **Go to Allison's. Watch out 4 Derek.**

 

It's a full five minutes before Scott replies. 

 

**WHAT DID YOU DO?**

 

The only time Scott ever bothers with capitals is when he's completely pissed, or completely freaked out, and Stiles doesn't know which it is this time and really doesn't have the energy to try to figure it out. Two minutes later his phone rings and a picture of Scott, derping out for Allison, flashes on the screen. He ignores it. Thirty seconds later, it starts to ring again. This time, he turns the phone to silent and shoves it in his hoodie.

 

At some point, he finds an In-N-Out and buys them lunch in the drive thru. He turns the radio on while they eat, and ignores the insistent vibration of his phone in his pocket.

 

He drives for another hour, until they hit the city, until they're in the middle of downtown. Then he pulls into the parking garage of a hotel. And not a cheap one, not a $55 a night no-tell motel, where banging headboards and breaking bottles and screeching voices are ignored as a matter of course, but at the most expensive looking place he can find, where lobbies are silent, and hotel staff dress nicer than guests, and security cameras...security cameras are everywhere. He makes Isaac put on his hoodie, but they still get some looks as they walk through the high arched, carpeted atrium, because Isaac's dirty, and his jeans have blood stains that may or may not pass for dirt as well, and they're both carrying ratty backpacks and look exactly like what they are – two runaways to the city.

 

But, his credit card is good, and his new I.D., that identifies him as legally old enough to book a room, is flawless – thank you, Danny – and while the desk clerk makes no attempt to hide her call to the credit company to double check Stiles is an authorized user, she's also too polite to call them out on their appearance. Isaac stands like a silent shadow as Stiles asks for, and gets, a room on the highest floor that has a vacancy, with no balcony, and windows that face the very, very busy downtown streets, and the desk clerk is too well trained to call them on that, either.

 

If Derek comes, he'll have to come at them head on.

 

Neither of them speak during the elevator ride, just stand on opposite sides and stare at each other, and Isaac jumps when the bell dings to signal they've reached their floor. Stiles waves at the elevator camera before he gets off – a habit he picked up as a kid – and leads Isaac past three doors before he finds their room number. The keycard doesn't work the first time, but does the second, and then they're walking into the nicest freaking room he's ever seen outside of movies.

 

Holy cow, his dad is going to kill him for the amount of money this costs.

 

The bathroom has heated floors, three different lighting settings, and a dimmer switch. He turns all of them on at once, then nods toward the shower stall. “Go shower, and then we'll get you fixed up, okay?”

 

Isaac nods and walks in, closes the door behind him. His silence is starting to freak Stiles out, just a little, even though he gets it.

 

It's only noon.

 

It feels like it should be midnight.

 

While he listens to the shower run, he kicks his shoes off and pulls the first aid kit from his backpack. It's a good one, has all different kinds of crap, including a reflective poncho that he wonders if anyone has ever actually used in all the history of personkind. By the time he's set out neosporin and peroxide and gauze pads and tape, the bathroom door reopens and Isaac pads out, dressed only in blue boxer briefs. One of the slices across his side has healed since they left this morning, and another one has opened up and is bleeding sluggishly.

 

Stiles chooses to concentrate on this, instead of the fact that even beaten all to hell, Isaac still looks something approaching godlike. It's not the time, and it's not the place, and swear to god, Stiles is not gonna be  _that guy_ . Isaac sits on the edge of the bed, looks vaguely around the room, and speaks for the first time in hours.

 

“It's nice.”

 

“Yeah. We should order room service.” The minibar is tempting, but even he isn't stupid enough to think anything less than full brain power is going to work right now. “Come on, lay down.”

 

He gets him bandaged as quickly as possible, wincing when he daubs peroxide into claw tracks, even though Isaac doesn't. Isaac just stares up at the ceiling as he works, letting Stiles maneuver him wherever he wants, like he's somewhere else completely. When Stiles tapes the last gauze pad in place, he puts his hand on Isaac's arm.

 

“Hey.”

 

Isaac tilts his head to look at him as Stiles continues. “You're used to this aren't you?”

 

Isaac shrugs. “You know what my dad was like.”

 

Not really, not totally. He knows what Scott has told him, knows the things he's snooped from his dad's files, knows the few bits Isaac has let slip, but the full details? They're all just fuzzy noise. They're going to fix that, though.

 

A tiny tremble runs through Isaac's skin, and vibrates into Stiles' palm. “He's going to find us,” Isaac says quietly. “He's going to come.”

 

“Maybe. Probably. But it's gonna take him a while. Hey --” Stiles doesn't like the way the white's of Isaac's eyes are widening, or the way his breathing has picked up. “--not his, remember? Not anymore.”

 

Stiles is stripping off his shirt when Isaac says the word. Slowly, carefully, like he's tasting it. “Omega.” And Stiles is only blushing a little, while pulling off his pants, when Isaac says, even more carefully. “Omegas don't survive on their own.”

 

Stiles freezes with his knee on the bed. “Scott was fine.”

 

Isaac's smile is bitter. “I think we've proved I'm not Scott.”

 

“Yeah, and you're not alone, either, okay?” He pokes Isaac in the ribs. “Scoot over. I'm comin' in.”

 

As soon as he lays down, something shifts, like by closing the distance, he's ripped whatever veil of numbness Isaac has wrapped himself in to shreds, made it impossible for him to maintain. Isaac's breath makes a herky jerky sound before he turns on his side and curls into him. He buries his face in Stiles' neck and starts shaking, fine tremors that travel up and down his body. He's shaking and shaking and shaking, and Stiles turns into him, petting at his arms and hair and back, doing his best to avoid bandages as he makes shushing noises. But Isaac just shakes harder, and then he starts licking at Stiles' neck, short, hard licks, over and again.

 

Stiles doesn't know why this is the moment when everything suddenly clicks for him - the shirts, and the showers and the way Isaac goes crazy with touching him whenever Derek's name is mentioned – and truthfully he kind of wants to kick himself for not getting it earlier. But he knows now, and he's going to fix this. Going to make Isaac stop being afraid, going to make him understand Stiles _meant_ it.

 

No take backs.

 

He pulls away from Isaac, far enough that he can see his face, doesn't miss the way Isaac freezes and then starts shaking harder. This is Isaac, laid bare. No armor, no guards, just the shattered bones of the boy Stiles wants so very, very badly. And this isn't normal, but Isaac isn't normal, and Stiles isn't normal, hasn't been normal since long before werewolves stumbled into his life, hasn't been normal since the day his mother died.

 

If he thinks about it in human terms, it's a little bit gross. When he thinks about it in terms of the werewolves, it makes more sense, is understandable. But when he thinks about it in terms of Isaac... In terms of Isaac it makes something burn low in his belly and spread to the tips of his fingers and toes, something similar to when he first saw Isaac still wearing his clothes or when he watches Isaac's eyes go shocky with surprise when he comes, like the pleasure he feels still takes him off guard, each and every time.

 

“I meant it, Isaac. I meant it. Okay?” He tunnels his hands into Isaac's hair and tugs, because Isaac likes it, and he wants to give Isaac everything he needs. It's too big. It's all too big and it's too scary, but it's there, and it's real. “It's okay to mark me up now. Make me smell like you. As much as you want. And we don't have to wash it off. Well, okay,” he amends, “we have to shower eventually, because, you know, hygiene...but then you can just do it again. No hiding anymore. I _swear_. We're gonna win this.”

 

Only, he must be missing something, because while Isaac makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat and pushes his face back into Stiles' neck, he's still trembling. He's still strung tight, still not putting flesh over the exposed bone. He flashes back to that first day, to kissing Isaac. Isaac licking down his jaw, Stiles licki -

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

_Because then you would choose Derek_ .

 

He's been looking at it all wrong. Well, not  _wrong_ , but not really getting it was supposed to be a two way street. He's just never considered – Oh. The idea that Isaac might think Stiles doesn't want...It  _hurts._ He pushes himself to his knees and leans over Isaac, braces his hands on either side of his head. Isaac watches him suspiciously, oddly, a far more comforting expression than any of the others he's worn today.

 

What if he's wrong? What if he's completely off the mark and Isaac just thinks he's an idiot? But because even Isaac laughing at him would be an improvement over this, he pushes forward with it, leans down and swipes his tongue across the underside of Isaac's jaw.

 

Isaac makes a sound like he's been gut punched, but in a really, really good way, and his hands fist in the sheets. For one second his whole body stills, and when the tremors start again, they're less; they're quieter.

 

Not wrong, then.

 

Stiles licks the other side of Isaac's jaw, and then his neck; his collarbone and the dips where it meets his shoulders. By the time he works his way across his chest and traces his ribs, Isaac isn't shaking anymore, and when he takes a second to look at Isaac's face, it's to see Isaac watching him intently, mouth slightly open and expression full of startled wonderment. Stiles wets his mouth and moves to Isaac's stomach, dips his tongue into his belly button. He finally has to break, because his mouth is starting to feel like he's been sucking on sand, and in an effort to ignore the way his body is reacting to the whole situation –  _down, boy, nobody's looking for that tonight –_ as well as the fact he's honestly curious, he rests his cheek Isaac's hip, just underneath a bandage, and asks –

 

“Can you...I mean, you know I can't tell...can you _smell_...?”

 

Isaac's eyes yellow, and it's not just the slight fang drop that makes his smile look predatory and raw. “ _Yes_ .”

 

It's crazy, freaking insane, really, that Stiles is as turned on as he is right now, because it's not just from his mouth on Isaac, and Isaac's skin on his. That's normal, that's them, that's  _human._ But it's more than that. It's because he's  _scent marking_ Isaac, letting everyone in the supernatural world know that he's chosen him, just like Isaac has been trying to do to him all along, even when Isaac didn't think he could, even when he kept having to wash it away.

 

They won't even have to say anything; the packs will just  _know_ .

 

Stiles is – oh god, he's so hard – and where his arm is slung loosely over Isaac's pelvis, he can feel Isaac pressing against him. He squeezes his eyes shut, buries his face in Isaac's hip, and takes a couple of big breaths. Just when he feels like he has a handle on himself, Isaac's toe nudges his calf.

 

“Keep going.”

 

And _theeeere's_ his Isaac, the demanding little shit. If it wouldn't look stupid, Stiles would probably do a fist pump right then and there. Still, he hesitates when he reaches the edge of Isaac's boxer briefs and curls his fingers under the waistband. There hasn't been time for him to even try to return Isaac's locker room favor, and he's not sure it's what Isaac wants, at least not now.

 

“Everywhere?”

 

Isaac's eyes are burning bright, bright, bright when he licks his lips and nods. “Yeah.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“If you ask me again, I'm going to kick you in the head.”

 

“And wow, that is some really stellar pillow talk you got there.” But he's grinning as he pulls Isaac's boxers off his hips and down his legs. And oh yeah, a naked Isaac is a really, really good Isaac, even with half a dozen bandages dotting him.

 

His stitches pull, just a little, as he settles between Isaac's knees and hovers over him, but it's not bad, and definitely not enough to distract him from his goal. In all the times he's pondered this – and he _has_ – he's always imagined he would be a bundle of nerves. But he's not. There's nothing scary about this, not at all, just the thought that he really wants to taste Isaac, _right now_.

 

And so he does.

 

He doesn't know what he likes best, the way Isaac makes this sobbing noise and bows up completely off the bed, so that Stiles has to pin his hips down, or the way Isaac feels in his mouth – hot and smooth against his tongue, as he works it around and underneath his head, across the ridge where his foreskin has pulled back. Or maybe he likes _watching_ Isaac best, how he throws an arm over his eyes, and his claws come out to puncture holes in the sheets; how his head thrashes to the side when Stiles shoves his thigh wider apart so he can get closer, can go deeper. Stiles has spit running down his chin, and he gags a few times before he accepts he does not, in fact, have any inborn deep throating talent, but he tries to make up for it with hands and suction and anything else he can recall from every dirty thing he's ever read or seen.

 

His thumb is already slick and wet when his grip slips, as he's mindlessly trying to push Isaac even more open, to hitch his leg higher, and it slides down to where Isaac is already spread and exposed, like it has a mind of its own and knows where it needs to be. The second the pad of his thumb presses against that puckered twitch of muscle, Isaac jerks, and then he's coming, his hands scrabbling at Stiles' hair like he wishes there was something there to grab hold to, to anchor himself on.

 

Somewhere in the back of his head, Stiles makes a mental note to grow his hair out, but mainly he's concerned with swallowing as fast as he can. Because cum? Yeah, not what he likes best about this, but he also drinks Jack straight, which is way, way nastier than the too salty taste of Isaac going down his throat. He doesn't even consider spitting. When he's done, he sits on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, before crawling up to flop down beside Isaac, his dick aching almost as much as his jaw.

 

Isaac's eyes are blissed out and back to blue, but he keeps opening and closing his mouth like he wants to say something, but doesn't know how to, or maybe if he _should_ , and oh, look at that, there's those nerves that have been strangely absent. Was he bad? Did Isaac not like it? And because he's Stiles, of _course_ he can't keep his mouth shut.

 

“Did it suck? Oh, God, it sucked, didn't it? Like, you came, but hey, we're guys, right? We can come at anything. You know, don't, ah, don't worry, because hey, practice makes perfect, and that's just the first time, and I bet you can tell me what would feel better, and -”

 

Isaac slaps his hand over Stiles' mouth. “It was freaking _awesome_ ,” he says hoarsely. “I just -” he screws his eyes shut and pushes everything out in a rush. “Iwantyoutokeepgoing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't assume that Sheriff Stilinski is buying anything that Stiles is selling. And look for a oneshot from his POV sometime in the near future.


	3. Set Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To consummate, or not to consummate. That is the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it seems like the boys are swinging wildly from one extreme to another - especially Isaac - it's because they are. Also, while this is smut, there are parts of it that aren't necessarily sexy. Because first times aren't perfect, no matter how much you want them to be.

“Um.” Stiles blinks rapidly and tries his best to process. “You mean the licking thing?”

 

“The licking, the sucking, the...the _everything._ ” Isaac still has his eyes closed; there are strips of red across his cheekbones. “You know what I mean.”

 

Yeah, Stiles knows what he means. There are one hundred different thoughts screaming around in Stiles' brain, but the one that wins the race is probably the stupidest one in there.

 

“We don't have any lube.”

 

Isaac opens his eyes and darts a look at his backpack. “I do.”

 

Stiles blinks.

 

Isaac ducks his head and the red has spread from his cheekbones to his ears. “I, um...I've had it in there for a couple weeks.”

 

“From _where_?” If he'd been going for low profile, waltzing up to the drug store counter with a bottle of lube doesn't exactly fit the grand scheme.

 

Isaac is dragging his backpack up on the bed when he answers. “I, uh...I stole it. From the Rite-Aid.”

 

There isn't any way to keep a bark of laughter from bubbling out of his mouth. “Oh my God, are you serious?”

 

Isaac smirks a little as he unzips the bag and starts fishing around inside. “Yep.” He frowns, obviously not finding what he's looking for, and starts pulling things out.

 

Stiles is still struggling not to giggle at the image of Isaac, skulking around a drugstore to pickpocket lubricant, trying to look inconspicuous in his douchepack jacket and army boots. Then it stops being funny, and morphs into something that makes his hard on return with a vengeance, when he puts together how long Isaac has been thinking about sex as a possibility, enough of a possibility that he took steps to be prepared.

 

Stiles swallows noisily and goes back to watching Isaac.

 

A hairbrush, a t-shirt – Stiles narrows his eyes when he realizes it's one of _his_ – and a composition notebook pile up on the bed, before Isaac makes a small sound of triumph and pulls out a tube. He sets it on the comforter as he shoves everything back in the knapsack and pushes it off the side of the bed.

 

“Lube.”

 

Stiles picks it up and turns it around in his hands, stares at it like it's going to give his dick and his brain all the answers they need. He's trying very, very hard to remember all the reasons having sex right now would be a bad idea.

 

  1. Every horror movie cliché in the book.

  2. High stress situations make for bad decisions (He's pretty sure he thinks that in his dad's voice.)

  3. Virgins on parade

  4. No condoms (A traitorous little voice in his head pipes out that using condoms is just going through the motions. There's no way either of them have any STDs, and it's not like they can get pregnant.)

  5. Isaac is -




 

Isaac is grabbing the lube from him and putting it on the bedside table. Isaac is pulling Stiles down over him and kissing him. Isaac is doing utterly obscene things with his thigh between Stiles' legs. Isaac is clearly trying to shut down Stiles' better intentions.

 

Isaac is doing a good job.

 

But the last thing he wants to do is hurt Isaac. Isaac has been hurt so much. Physically. Mentally. And Stiles doesn't really know what's right anymore, or what will make things worse. As much as he wants this, he really, really doesn't want this to be one more thing that breaks Isaac.

 

Stiles hovers over him, all nerves and heat and twitching muscles, trying to find some kind of answers in Isaac's face. It's flushed, and Isaac's pupils are blown wide, and Stiles always tries to be good, but he's never going to pull off Sainthood, not when he's faced with the eternal temptation of Isaac Lahey. He mutters a curse and leans back down, licks over and into Isaac's mouth, kisses him until he's moaning into his tongue. He pulls back until he can see Isaac's eyes, but still close enough that their lips are almost brushing with every word.

 

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I don't...oh, God, okay, this sounds like a bad romance novel...I want this to be good...I want this to be so good for you. And I don't know that it can like this. And I just – I just... I like it – I like the way you feel and the way you sound and the way you taste and I want to...I want to be the person that does that to you. But you're hurt and we're stuck in this hotel room and we haven't even – We haven't even tried any of this before.”

 

He's supposed to be being strong for the both of them right now – he knows that – but he doesn't feel strong. He feels turned around, and turned on, and he thinks he should maybe protect Isaac from himself, but he really...oh god he really wants –

 

Stiles hands are shaking, he wants it so badly.

 

Isaac is naked beneath him, and the fabric of Stiles' boxer briefs are so very, very thin, and maybe...maybe he could just get Isaac hard again and jerk them off? That would...that would be good, right? His thought process gets derailed by Isaac mouthing along his jaw line, all wet and soft and just a hint of teeth as he moves to his ear. His traitorous dick gives a happy little twitch.

 

“Isaac,” he groans out, because oh, God, Isaac wants Stiles to _fuck_ him. He wants Stiles to spread him open, and -

 

Isaac reaches his ear and slides his tongue around the shell. Stiles tries, with the last bit of his brain that hasn't been drowned out by the insistent whine of his dick, to get the conversation back on track.

 

“This maybe isn't the best --”

 

The look in Isaac's eyes when he pulls back is confused, a little lost, as he searches Stiles face. “But you said I was yours.”

 

Just like that, everything in Stiles turns horrified, and he jerks back from Isaac. Was that all this was? Was that the only reason -

 

“That doesn't mean you have to – Jesus, you aren't obligated... Did you even want - ?”

 

He feels sick. He feels sick and he thinks he's going to throw up. He's in the process of scrambling off the bed when an iron grip wraps around his wrist and jerks him back. Fucking werewolf strength. And _oh_ , Isaac looks _pissed_.

 

“I got the crap kicked out of me, but I'm not brain damaged. I _know_ that.”

 

Maybe Stiles has used up his supply of adrenaline fueled brain power, because now he's just confused.

 

“I'm confused.” May as well get that out in the open, because Stiles is a getting things out in the open kind of guy. Or he will be, in the future – he's getting the feeling Isaac might need that sometimes. And maybe Stiles needs that, too, and maybe they really, really need to work on their communication skills.

 

“You said I was yours.” Isaac speaks slowly, tasting each word as he says it, like the flavor is something completely new. “And you aren't like my dad or Der– I've seen you. You take care of your things.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to protest this idea of Isaac as an object, but Isaac shakes his head at him. “Stop. Let me finish.”

 

And okay, fair enough. Stiles can do that. A little bit of the cold leaches out of his spine, a little bit of the fear that Isaac thinks Stiles is _owed_ this washes away.

 

“And I see you with Scott and Allison and Lydia and even Jackson, who's a total douche by the way, and if you ever want me to...you know...I will.”

 

“You know you really can't just kill people, right?”

 

Isaac shrugs, his fingers idly picking at the tape holding his bandages in place. “Yeah. I guess. But he _hurts_ you. And you still take care of him, because he's important to you. They're all important to you. And I'm important to you now, right?”

 

He doesn't sound like he's actually asking, just stating a fact. Stiles pulls Isaac's hand away from where he's started peeling at the tape, and rests his chin on it as Isaac continues.

 

“I don't get some things. I know that. But I _get_ this. You don't hurt what's yours. So you won't hurt me. Why are you afraid you will?”

 

“Dude.” Is it appropriate to call the person you're on the run with and emotionally invested in and maybe possibly are about to sleep with _dude_? Stiles has no real idea; there were no training wheels for this. “Because, like -” he waves his free hand expansively at their bodies. “- _sex_. It's not like blow jobs or rubbing one out with each other. It's not even like Allison and Scott. And my experience plus your experience equals exactly zero. First times in general probably suck, and you're _already_ hurt. I don't want to make it worse.”

 

He mumbles the last bit, but the corner of Isaac's mouth turns up as he shifts carefully to his side. “Don't tell me you haven't already researched the hell out it.”

 

Well, of course he has. Research is his _thing_ , duh. So yeah, he knows the mechanics. _In detail._ But mechanics and practical application are two very, very different things.

 

Apparently the pillow underneath him has become the most fascinating thing in the room, because Isaac can't seem to tear his eyes from it. He swallows a couple of times and says quietly, “I want to, okay?” He sneaks a look at Stiles underneath long lashes and it hits Stiles again just how gorgeous Isaac actually is. “I've wanted to for a while. I just...I didn't think we could. Because...”

 

Ah. Right. Because Isaac was delusional enough to think Stiles wasn't as emotionally twisted up in Isaac as Isaac was in him, or that Stiles was suddenly going to go riding off into the sunset with a psychopathic Alpha. Of course, to be fair, Stiles hadn't really had a clue about a lot of things either, and had maybe been sort of convinced Isaac was likely to kill him a few days ago, but he's not going to dwell on that.

 

“But, you know, whatever.” And oh, no, no, Isaac is putting on his _I'm an emotionless douchebag who's way too cool to give a fuck_ face. “If you don't want to, it's no big deal.”

 

“Jesus fuck, Isaac. Were you even listening to me? Have I been making out with myself? Did you miss this memo?” He throws a leg over Isaac's and grinds into him, because his dick was absolutely not deterred by the previous conversation. “Of course I want to.”

 

When Stiles kisses him again, there's just a thin band of yellow around Isaac's eyes, but when he pulls back to catch his breath, they're full gold. “Then _do_ it,” Isaac says, and his hands are twisting in the waistband of Stiles' briefs. Stiles isn't stupid enough to believe this still doesn't have _something_ to do with the werewolf side of Isaac, and the idea of Stiles completely choosing him; he has a feeling that doing this will be taking an irrevocable step – for him, for Isaac – but really, that decision was made the second he pulled Isaac from Derek's hideout. And if this is something Isaac needs -

 

Then fuck it. He's gonna do whatever he can to make it the best he can.

 

He's not quite as gentle as he probably should be, when he pushes Isaac to his back and climbs on top of him. He kisses him as dirty as he knows, filthy wet and hard, and his hands tremble as he fists Isaac's hair and jerks. He swallows Isaac's cries and just keeps going, until Isaac is a shaking mess just from Stiles' mouth and the constant pull of Stiles' hands in his hair. Isaac is always so freaking responsive once he gets going, like everything was just boiling underneath the surface and begging to be let out, and by the time Stiles comes up for air, just feeling Isaac shivering apart beneath him has his underwear sticky with pre-come. He's trying to keep most of his weight off Isaac's torso, doesn't want to open healing wounds, but Isaac is arching mindlessly into him, hard again, and his lips are raw and puffy from Stiles' mouth.

 

He's completely pliant as he watches Stiles, although his breath is shuddering out of him in little sobbing sounds. The idea that Isaac is trusting him with this will be humbling when he thinks back on it, but right now, Stiles' brain is busy with the way Isaac's neck feels against his lips, and the way the flesh gives, just a little, when he bites down, and with how, exactly, he's going to pull this off.

 

He knows, of course – every scarring website he's been to agrees on the best way to loosen someone up, to get muscle to relax and bodies to go boneless, but he'd be lying if he said the whole idea didn't freak him out just a little or that he hadn't just assumed they'd slowly graduate to the weirder parts of sex, if they ever got to the sex part at all. Isaac is _trusting_ him though, and that blows any previous hang ups out the water.

 

“You should take these off.” Isaac is tugging on his boxer briefs again, fingers slipping under the waistband and ghosting over his dick. For a minute Stiles thinks he's going to lose it before they even start, going to come just from Isaac's hand. He grabs at Isaac's wrist and presses it down, which makes it both worse and better, because while he stops moving, the pressure...oh god... _Jesus_.

 

“Stop...stop okay. I don't wanna... _ah_...” He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think unsexy thoughts as he pulls Isaac's hand away. When he opens them again, Isaac is wearing a decidedly smug expression.

 

“Oh, ha ha ha. Yeah, okay. Fuck you.”

 

Isaac shrugs. “That's what I keep hoping for.”

 

Oh, and that is just _it_. Stiles glares at Isaac, or at least tries to – it's kind of hard to maintain when he's not really pissed and Isaac is actually grinning and naked – as he strips off his briefs and lurches over to grab the lube from the bedside table. He kisses Isaac one last time, a bruising press of teeth and lips, and makes an extremely embarrassing noise at the feel of their bodies sliding together. His dick is openly rebelling at the idea of _waiting_ , when it's far more used to _let's come as quickly as possible_ as the general philosophy of his and Isaac's making out.

 

“Trust me, okay?” is the last thing he says before he starts sliding down Isaac's body, because it's a lot easier than saying _I'm gonna stick my tongue inside you please don't freak out I'm pretty sure you'll like it_ , even though he _is_ pretty sure Isaac will like it, if only because it seems like a natural extension of the whole scent marking thing. And _oh_ , does that mean Isaac would get off on doing it to him?

 

Stiles' body clenches and prickles of sweat break out at the thought, because wow... _wow_ he's never really considered it, but _fuck_...yeah...yeah that's something he wants to try. If they survive this...If they survive this, holy hell there's a laundry list of things he wants to try.

 

He skims his hands down Isaac's thighs. Isaac doesn't give any resistance when he pushes them up and apart, and settles on his belly between them, but his breathing ratchets up. Stiles forces himself to stop staring at Isaac' ass and look at his face instead. It's bright red and his eyes are screwed shut and his hands are in his hair, but not fisting.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“ _Don't_.” Isaac spits out. “Don't keep asking that. You can't break me. I can't...I don't want to...if you keep acting like I'm going to break. Feels good, okay? Always feels good. Like your hands on me. Like your mouth better.”

 

He doesn't think he's going to get a clearer invitation than that, so he just goes for it, presses his face into Isaac and licks a broad, flat stroke across his hole.

 

And holy shit, Isaac makes the most pornographic sound Stiles has ever heard, even in _porn_ , and his whole body goes limp. Stiles does it again, and Isaac sobs.

 

“Yeah?” Stiles says, completely meaninglessly, but Isaac answers, voice thin and reedy.

 

“ _Please_.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah yeah.” Isaac tastes mainly of soap and skin, of spit and the cum from earlier, but there's this _scent_ , too, musky and deep and concentrated enough that even Stiles' nose can pick it up, and it's doing all sorts of things to Stiles' brain, not to mention his body, and he pushes closer, breathes deeper, tongues harder over Isaac's hole, pushing in just a little bit as it relaxes under wet pressure.

 

Isaac is straight out babbling now, with every new thing Stiles tries – a flick here, a curl there, pushing hard and then soft, pulling back completely so that Isaac is grinding down to chase after the sensation – and while Isaac is usually all noise once he gets started, actual words...that's something new. He makes the mistake of looking at Isaac, and nearly chokes on his spit.

 

Isaac's head is arched back, leaving his throat bare and white and smooth, and Stiles has never wanted to _bite_ something so much in his life, leave a red ring of teeth marks for just a second, before they fade. His hands are still in his hair, but from the way the muscles in his forearms are straining, he's yanking the _hell_ out of it. All of it adds up to a picture that has Stiles' hips jerking into the mattress just to find some friction, and holy fuck, he needs to speed things up or he's going to finish before they even really start.

 

Lube...he needs lube. He sits back up and fumbles around on the bed, muttering _shhh shhh_ when Isaac makes a distressed whine. He finally finds it and uncaps it with shaking fingers, then squeezes way, way too hard, so that it glops out not only on his hand, but all over the bedspread as well.

 

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” He drops the tube behind him before crouching back over Isaac, swiping his tongue against him one more time – he vaguely wonders why he ever thought rimming wasn't a good idea – then replaces it with a finger. He pushes too fast, too hard, and Isaac hisses, grits his teeth.

 

“Sorry!” He eases back out, petting Isaac's hip and and pressing his lips to the inside of his thigh. “Sorry.” He's slower the next time, just a tip, and feels Isaac give around him, open up.

 

“More?” He thinks Isaac's low grunt is affirmative, but when Isaac pushes down into his hand, he's pretty sure that's a definite yes, so he lets him take it, lets him pull his finger in further. It's an entrancing sight, watching Isaac flex and open around him.

 

Tight. So freaking tight and hot and slippery with lube, and Isaac is gonna let Stiles inside that; _wants_ Stiles inside him. Another finger, and he tries...tries so hard with the slow and easy, even though he's actively rutting against the mattress now. Gotta be slow. Gotta be careful. Gotta make sure Isaac is ready to take him. Everything he's read says slow and careful and -

 

“ _Stiles.”_ Isaac is _growling_ at him, and when Stiles looks up, there are fangs, and claws, and not just eyes, and oh, oh, okay, message received. Enough bullshitting around. It would be easier for Isaac if he flipped him over, let Stiles take him on his hands and knees, but Stiles needs...he needs to be able to see Isaac's face, to see what's happening with him. Needs to know that he's okay, because he's not sure if Isaac would tell him.

 

So he pushes Isaac's knees higher as he kneels and finds the lube again. He's a little better this time, doesn't add more mess to the bedspread he's already slipping around on, and then he's fisting his own dick, slicking it up and not being able to stop from thrusting into the circle of his fingers. He hears a noise, a choking sound, from Isaac, and Isaac's staring at him, his tongue sweeping compulsively over fangs.

 

“Sometime...you'll let me watch you do that?” Isaac asks.

 

“ _Ah.._ Jesus fuck, Isaac.” And Stiles does something he never thought he would do to his poor dick. He squeezes hard enough at the base for it to be painful, because otherwise this was gonna be over right then and there. He silently apologizes to it before letting go. “You can't say...not right now...Jesus...Jesus, yes, okay?”

 

Then he's there, one hand braced on Isaac's knee, to keep him wide open, and another holding his dick steady as he presses the crown against Isaac's hole. It's shiny and wet, from spit and lube, and the second he gets his tip inside he has to stop. Try to breath.

 

“Oh my god,” he whispers, because yeah, it's that good. And it's not just a body, not just the fact there's something a million times tighter and hotter than his own hand wrapping around him. That's part of it, yeah, because he _is_ sixteen, but it's also the steady chant of _Isaac Isaac Isaac_ that is running on continuous loop in his brain, as he slowly eases himself in until he's fully seated. It's Isaac's legs wrapped around his hips and his hands braced against the headboard.

 

It's _Isaac_.

 

He pulls out a little, pushes back in. Pulls out farther, slides home. He keeps changing angles, speed, trying to find Isaac's prostate. He remembers looking really hard at that diagram, but his brain has officially gone offline, so damned if he can recall it. It's all so much heat and flesh and grip and slide, and he wants to sing odes to Isaac's ass, maybe write him a sonnet.

 

And he would, too, except that Isaac is tense, and trembling, and not in the good way that means he's right on the edge of pleasure. It's not pain, exactly – he knows that look on Isaac – but he's definitely not where Stiles is.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says again. “I'm trying to make it better. I just don't...I can stop...I'll stop.”

 

Isaac's voice is a slurry when he speaks, drugged out sounding and slow, and Stiles has to struggle to hear him as he shakes his head back and forth on the pillow. “No...doesn't hurt...s'not good, but s'like... _good_...m'wolf.” And he bows his back to push into Stiles, drag him in deeper. The best Stiles can figure is that it's not doing much for Isaac's human side, but something in his wolf likes it.

 

And, well, screw that. It's not good enough, not by a long shot. He wants all of Isaac to want this, to want to do it again and again and again. And now that he's had a second to concentrate on something besides how freaking fantastic Isaac feels, it's easy enough to find a solution, because _hello_ , jerking off is universally enjoyable. He keeps moving his hips in erratic circles – any steady rhythm is far, far beyond him at this point – while he shifts to one forearm, but he's barely gotten his hand on him when Isaac makes a strangled noise.

 

Stiles freezes.

 

“What? What?” What the hell did he do? “What's wrong?” He _knew_ they shouldn't have done this. He's the suckiest de-virginizer of all time. They'll probably write books warning people to stay away from guys like him. Isaac's never going to want him to do this again. He should have let Isaac top -

 

“Again.”

 

“ _What_ again? What's wrong?”

 

Isaac's voice is a desperate whine. “Come on, come on, come on....nothing's wrong. Jesus, please, just do it again.” He's pressing his palms flat against the headboard as he speaks, using the leverage to thrust up into Stiles.

 

The lightbulb finally goes off in Stiles' head and he's grinning madly, he can't help himself. “Really? Yeah?” He stays at the same angle, pulls out and pushes back in, hard. Isaac's eyes fly wide and his mouth drops open and he _squeezes_ around Stiles.

 

“Oh frak,” is the only thing he can say before he's doing it again, and again, and again, and each time Isaac jolts and whines, and each time he's like a fist around Stiles' dick. Everything is turning to white noise in his head, and his hand on Isaac's cock is getting sloppy and his gut is clenching, and he really only gets five or six thrusts in before he's...he's...

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm sorry,” he gasps out as he comes, hard and sloppy, because Isaac's not there yet, and he wanted him to be there. But he keeps jacking Isaac through it, even as his hips stutter to a halt and he can feel himself start to soften, because Isaac might not be there, but he's close, and he's making those noises again that Stiles wants to put on a continuous loop on his iPod.

 

Stiles puts his mouth on every inch of skin he can reach that's not covered in bandages – hips, abs, nipples, shoulder – biting and licking and feeling the way Isaac is arching and tensing, faster and faster. When he finally reaches Isaac's neck, that spot he'd been eyeing earlier, he clamps down, digs teeth in deep, and Isaac howls in his ear, gouges holes in wood, and comes.

 

For a while they just stare at each other, both of their mouths kind of hanging open, and then Stiles backs up and pulls completely out of Isaac, wincing in sympathy with Isaac at the sensation. There's lube everywhere, and cum everywhere, and Stiles ignores it all to plaster himself to Isaac's side. He's not surprised when Isaac starts stroking his palm over Stiles' chest and stomach, rubbing his cum into Stiles' skin, and he idly drags his fingers through the mess on Isaac's front.

 

“I went before you. I think that's rude or something.”

 

Isaac yawns and his jaw pops and he looks as relaxed as Stiles has ever seen him, which is a little ridiculous, considering the circumstances, but Stiles is feeling pretty noodle-y himself. Isaac scrubs his cheek over Stiles' buzzcut. “Two to one. Think I'm still winning.”

 

Stiles realizes what he's talking about at the same time the smartass curls his hand on top of Stiles' chest, over his heart. “Told you you wouldn't hurt me.”

 

There are a lot of things he wants to ask Isaac: what it felt like, was he just good or was he _awesome,_ and especially he wants to know more about how Isaac's wolf was involved earlier, but Isaac's eyes are starting to flutter shut, like he wants to sleep, and it's a reminder of how fucked up this day really is, in so, so many ways.

 

He almost suggests a shower, before realizing what a spectacularly bad idea that would be at the moment, and settles for padding to the bathroom to brush his teeth – he kind of wants to kiss Isaac again, and just... _no_...without toothpaste – and grab a wet rag, and they wipe down what's necessary to keep from totally sticking together.

 

They both end up in the wet spot, because the entire bed is a wet spot, thanks to Stiles' earlier misfiring of the lube, but Isaac just makes a mumbley kind of noise and noses into Stiles' collarbone. Stiles pets his hair a little and tries not to fall asleep, but as the minutes tick by, he thinks _Isaac_ might be the one to actually drop off, and if that happens, it might mean more than anything else that happened today.

 

_You could, you know_ , he wants to say.  _You can sleep. I'll watch_ .  _I'll keep you safe_ . But he keeps his mouth shut and listens as Isaac's breathing gets deeper, and more even, and his muscles start to grow slack and loose against Stiles. An hour passes like that, and while Isaac's eyes are still open, it's only by the smallest amount, and Stiles knows he's almost there.

 

Until he isn't.

 

Somewhere inside of Isaac, a flip switches, and he jerks, his entire body drawing in on itself. He sits up, scrambles back against the headboard, and clutches at the sheets like a lifeline, his breath hissing out in short, panicked bursts. In a matter of seconds, Stiles watches as everything peaceful and calm and content drains out of Isaac and he's instead looking at the boy he found curled on the cement in the train yard.

 

Isaac's voice is hoarse as he keeps trying to push himself further into the headboard.

 

“He's here.”


	4. The Axiom of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything really does go to hell, and Stiles needs lots of help to save the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I apologize for how long this update took, and that it was a day later than I promised on Tumblr. I ended up having to go back and rework a major part of the chapter. Just a reminder that this story went AU from 2 x 06, so all those little moments of growth we saw with Derek didn't necessarily happen, and events in canon may or may not have occurred as seen. Which is to say, it was close enough that we still get certain end results, but more people died, and pack loyalties were split along different lines.
> 
> Also, I have added one more chapter to the over all length of this particular story. Some loose ends to tie up before the final oneshot in the series.

_Crap, crap, crap, crap._ “What? Like right outside?” How the hell had he found them so fast? Stiles had thought they'd have at least another day; at least a night where they could have slept and Stiles could have fleshed out more of a plan - 

 

He realizes he's starting to panic, and if he panics, Isaac is going to be completely out of control, so he forces his muscles to relax. He can't do anything about his heart rate, but with the way Isaac is freaking out, he's not sure he even notices.

 

Isaac shakes his head frantically. “No. No.” His eyes go unfocused for a second. “Maybe...maybe the lobby? But he's  _here_ .”

 

_Shit_ . Okay, okay. Derek still has to find them. They've got a few minutes, maybe, but not long. Isaac is pack still. This close, and it's only a matter of time. He thinks about showering, and his mouth curls into a defiant sneer all on its own. Isaac isn't some dirty secret, and this thing with Derek isn't going to be won by trying to placate him, or tip toe around. It's been months since Derek has respected the idea of compromise, or has seen the care people take in trying not to offend one another as anything other than weakness. He only understands power.

 

He knows what he's about to do is the equivalent of rubbing Derek's nose in the fact that he has chosen Isaac over him, but Stiles refuses to give Derek any reason to think he is ashamed of this, of Isaac. The finality of the decisions he's made today still scare him, there's no way around that, but not because he thinks they're wrong, or a mistake, and he  _wants_ Derek to know he's let Isaac mark him, from the very second the Alpha smells him.

 

He's not going into this to sue for peace. He's going into this to win.

 

Isaac has scrambled off the bed and is pulling his boxers on. “Come on, come on, we've gotta go.”

 

“Isaac -”

 

He's on his knees, digging into his backpack again. “Get dressed, get dressed.  _Come on!_ ”

 

“Isaac. Hey, _Isaac_.” He's realizing Isaac isn't hearing a thing he's saying, filled up on panic and who knows what else. He drops to his knees and grabs Isaac's hands, forcing him to stop.

 

“Isaac, no.” He's shaking in Stiles' grip, breath hissing harshly. “Isaac,” he says again, then does the only thing he can thing of to focus him. He curls one hand around the back of Isaac's neck and kisses him. Presses his tongue past his teeth and into the skin of his inner cheek; insistently works his lips against Isaac's until he feels his muscles relax, until Isaac is kissing him back. And still Stiles keeps going, tilting Isaac's head and deepening the kiss, letting Isaac's hands go so he can slide his arm around the small of his back and tug Isaac to him.

 

When he finally pulls back, Isaac is in his lap, straddling him, and his eyelids are at lazy half-mast. Oh, one day he's going to fuck Isaac like this, let Isaac ride him while Stiles just watches, and his fingers flex deep into Isaac's skin before he remembers why he started the kiss in the first place. He shakes Isaac by the scruff of his neck, just a little, to bring them both back to attention.

 

“Look at me. We're not going anywhere, okay? We're here for a reason. We ran, okay, but we were running _to_ somewhere. Listen. Listen to me. We're fine. We're going to be fine.”

 

Isaac shakes his head. “No, we're not going to be fine. You don't  _know_ him.”

 

“Yes we are.” Of course, Stiles isn't 100% sure of that, but Isaac really needs to believe he is. He nudges Isaac off and starts finding his clothes. He doesn't bother with his boxer briefs, just pulls his jeans on and throws his t-shirt over his head. 

 

“I need you to listen to me, okay? Don't leave the room. I don't care what happens, or what you hear. Keep the door closed.”

 

Isaac freezes as the implication of his words set in. “You  _can_ ' _t_ ,” he whispers.

 

“Yeah, I can. No, no, no,” he says, when he sees Isaac's body tensing again. “Listen, listen.” He wraps his arms around Isaac and pulls his head to his shoulder – a little awkward with the height difference, but it works because Isaac lets it. “Shhh. Look. He can't shift out there. He can't do _anything_ out there. There's security feeds everywhere.” Of course, he's working under the assumption Derek will actually give a fuck about being caught, which honestly isn't a given. But he figures it's a 70/30 split, and that's pretty good odds. Either way, he's not getting his hands on Isaac.

 

“He'll have to deal, okay? But he has to stay _out there_. He gets in here, babe, there's nothing to stop him. It's too private. So I need you to _stay_. Promise me.”

 

“It should be me,” Isaac's voice is muffled against his shoulder. “I'm stronger.”

 

Stiles chews his lip, because he really doesn't want to have to get into the fact that while Isaac may be physically stronger, he's in no shape to see Derek right now. Isaac knows he's shattered into a million pieces. He doesn't need Stiles to confirm it.

 

“Yeah, and Derek's stronger than us both. We can't win in a fight. So no meeting of the super secret wolfie club today. He's not going to hurt me.” _At least not permanently_. “He's not. He just needs to understand that whatever he thought was going to happen, isn't. Ever.”

 

“I should go with you.”

 

“Uh uh. I can't do this if...I have to know you're safe, okay? I have to know that.”

 

Isaac lifts his head, and oh god, he's scared. Stiles can read terror all over his face, but his fangs are out and his jaw is hard. “I have to do something. This is my fault. This is all my fault. You would be okay...everything would be fine if I hadn't -”

 

“No.” Stiles spits the word out. “ _Nothing_ is your fault. This is Derek's fucked up fault. I am _exactly_ where I want to be, okay? Hey, Hey – Is this where you wanna be? You wanna be with me?”

 

Isaac nods without hesitation.

 

“Then we're gonna be _fine_. Trust me. I need you to trust me on this. Look...” Just in case. Just in case it all goes to shit. “If...if something happens. I don't know...like...screaming or something.” There are sudden claws digging into his sides. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. No. Not that. You promise me, okay?”

 

It's wearing him down, trying to keep it together and look confident when he's pretty sure he's just as scared as Isaac. But he can do it a little longer. He can keep Isaac safe. He stares at Isaac until he gets what he chooses to take as an agreeing nod. The claws retract.

 

“You pick up that phone and you call 911, okay? You tell them someone's trying to kill you, you tell them something. You tell them whatever is going to get them here as fast as possible. And you wait.” There's no point in saying that if Derek breaks the door down, there's nothing Isaac can do to stop him anyway. Last stand. Death trap. Two sides of the same coin.

 

Isaac clenches and unclenches his jaw, then bites out, “I don't like it.”

 

“I don't like it, either. You know I don't. But I just need you to trust me.”

 

“Yeah. Okay.”

 

He blows out a breath. Time to get the show on the road. “I'm gonna wait for him in the hall.” He doesn't think there's anything else to say. At least not that wouldn't sound trite or stupid, or like he was making some eleventh hour speech. So he kisses Isaac hard on the mouth and leans his forehead against his for just a second.

 

He stops by his bag and pulls out the little hand held taser Allison had given him, after the whole debacle with her grandfather, and shoves it into his back pocket, and he's at the door when Isaac's voice stops him. 

 

“Hey, Stiles.” When he turns around, Isaac is sitting on the edge of the bed, still in nothing but his boxer briefs, and he's staring fixedly at his hands, loosely clasped between his knees.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You're a liar. You have no idea if you can make him listen. You have no idea what he's going to do.”

 

“I -”

 

Isaac lifts his head and grins, wide and open and with only a hint of something wild. “But it's okay. You'll figure it out. You always do.”

 

Isaac's smiling, and that's the picture Stiles takes with him when he walks out the door.

 

* * * * * * * 

 

He waits. And he waits. And he waits. Logically he knows it can't have been more than fifteen minutes, but he's getting restless, and twitchy, and it's then he remembers he didn't take his Adderall that morning. Wonderful. Exactly what he needs.

 

By the time the elevator dings, he's pacing back and forth across the hall, and he barely manages to rearrange into a casual pose against the wall before the doors slide open and Derek walks out. There's no surprise on his face at seeing Stiles waiting for him; his stance is relaxed, like he's going into a battle he already knows he'll win, and his stride only falters once. When he's a couple of steps away, Stiles sees his nostrils flare and then his eyes flash red before settling back to hazel. But he barely misses a beat before recovering. He leans against the wall opposite Stiles and gives him a nod.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Derek.” He's proud his tone manages to stay level, and his heart rate only ratchets up a bit.

 

“Nice place.”

 

“Yeah, it'll do.” He glances meaningfully at the two security cameras at either end of the hall, artfully disguised in decorative plaster work. “They keep a good eye on things. Make sure everything is nice and quiet and peaceful.”

 

Derek chuckles. He fucking  _chuckles_ . “Subtle, Stiles. I like it. You knew I would come.” He doesn't look upset that he's been upstaged. He looks...pleased.

 

“Yeah, well, you're a little predictable. Gotta say, though. Wasn't quite expecting you so soon.” As usual, his curiosity gets the better of him. “Wanna tell me how you managed it?”

 

Derek leans further into the wall, crossing one leg over the other and shoving his hands into his pockets. “I have you to thank for that.”

 

“Heh. No, I don't think so.”

 

“Oh, no. You definitely get the credit. If it weren't for you, I never would have known about Danny's particular...skill set. See, I can learn.”

 

Son of a  _bitch_ . Then a knot forms in his gut. “Where is he? Is he okay? What did you do him?”

 

“Stiles, please.” Derek's eyebrow raises. “He's fine. You're so quick to jump to conclusions. I'm not the monster here.”

 

For a second, Stiles isn't seeing Derek at all, but only Peter Hale, smooth talking and deadly and utterly, utterly psychotic. He's in over his head. He is _so_ in over his head. This was a terrible mistake. He barely catches himself from wiping sweaty palms on his jeans, and forces his jaw to unclench.

 

“Really. That's funny. I bet Isaac has a different opinion.”

 

“Hmm.” He looks down at the floor and smiles, then looks up again. “Why don't you bring him out and we can discuss it.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Let me get right on that. _Or_...how about hell no. How about you turn your werewolf ass around, go home, and leave us both the hell alone.”

 

“You know that's not going to happen.”

 

“And you know I'm not letting you touch Isaac.”

 

“Stiles,” Derek's voice is gentle, and it makes Stiles' skin crawl. “You don't understand.”

 

“Not a lot to understand about you shredding Isaac into pieces.”

 

“You're judging by human standards. The pack works differently. Isaac made a mistake. He touched what was already claimed. No one does that. He needed correction. It could have ended there. But now I have to deal with it again.”

 

“Actually, no, you don't.” Stiles forces his hands out of the fists they've unconsciously formed. “Because here's the thing. A) Screw your freaky werewolf ideas. Isaac's just as human as me. And b) He didn't touch what was already claimed. He touched what was _his_. Okay? _His._ Just because you have some fucked up Alpha notion that you get to take what you want, doesn't make it true. I don't know what in hells name made you decide on me, but let's just get something straight.

 

“I. Don't. Want. You. Clear enough? And even if I did, none of what you're doing _would be okay_.”

 

Derek's expression hasn't changed one iota, and for a second Stiles wonders if he's heard a single word he said. But of course he has. He apparently just doesn't care. “Stiles.” His voice is patient, in contrast to the hard edge Stiles' had carried. “You're still looking at it from the wrong side. There's no reason why I wouldn't want you. Strong, loyal, smart...not just smart, but clever. Willing to be ruthless when necessary – What you did to Erica proves that, if nothing else – and far more resourceful than any of my betas.”

 

A hysterical little laugh is trying its best to work its way out of Stiles' throat. “Ha. Wow. Sounds like I'm a job applicant. How romantic.”

 

Derek's smile turns sly. “There are those reasons, too, but yes, mate selection is a matter of looking for the person who strengthens your pack, especially for an Alpha.”

 

“Um...I'm pretty sure _you're_ looking at it from the wrong side. 'Cause I don't think Isaac is thinking about any of that. I think he just kind of likes me.”

 

Derek hisses, baring fang.

 

“Hey, hey! Uh-uh. Cameras, remember? Down, boy.”

 

“Cute, Stiles. Cute.” Derek flashes a close-mouthed, unamused smile. “I made a mistake in not telling you sooner. Things were...unsettled. We thought it would be better to wait until the situation was more stable. Until the packs were more stable. But it's just made you confused.”

 

It's like spinning wheels against asphalt. Nothing is making any impact. “I'm not confused. You are. And that's what you get for listening to your pack. They're idiots, remember? Barely pubescent teenagers on power trips?”

 

“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.” Derek is using his idiot child voice. “Do you really think my pack needs to know more than the fact you're mine? Their opinion in the matter is irrelevant.”

 

“I'm not the one who said we, jackass.”

 

Derek arches an eyebrow. “I did. But the only person who needs to know anything about my reasons certainly isn't a beta, and especially one in my pack. Only your Alpha's opinion matters.”

 

“ _Bullshit_.” Bullshit. No way in fucking hell... but he remembers then, the odd inflection in Isaac's voice in the train yard. _He's told us_ all. And Scott's freaked out text earlier in the day. The back of his neck feels cold.

 

Derek taps his nose. “I couldn't hide it from him even if I wanted to. Why do you think we keep trying to work things out, over and over again, when we obviously have nothing in common? Because we _do_ have something in common. You.”

 

“I don't believe you. I don't believe you. Scott would _never_ be okay with this. He would never be okay with what you did to Isaac.”

 

“Of course not. Scott wouldn't be okay with swatting a fly. He's running around just as indignant as you're imagining.” His disdain is clear in his voice and Stiles relaxes some. Of course Scott couldn't have known. Of course he wouldn't -

 

“But he understands it. He understands the instinct.”

 

“Bull. Shit.” If Stiles keeps saying it, it's going to start sounding redundant, but it's the only word he can grab hold to.

 

“Think, Stiles. How many times has Scott tried to kill Jackson because of Allison? How many times did he almost kill _Allison_. He may not like it, but he knows.”

 

“Okay, first? It's been months since Scott's pulled any of that crap, so it's not like you can't control it. So fuck your _instinct_.”

 

“You think he wouldn't do it again? You have no idea.”

 

Stiles throws his hand up in Derek's face. “Shut up! And second, they're actually, you know, together. So, for the last time, get it through your dumb, thick, wolfie brain -

 

“I'm. Not. Yours. I don't want to _be_ yours. I know you can smell it, I know you smelled it. Here, get a good whiff.” He flails his arms toward Derek, trying to push as much scent to him as he can. “That's called sex. I'm sure you remember it. Sex with _Isaac_. I'm _Isaac's_.” It feels awkward to say it, because Stiles' twenty-first century brain isn't totally down with this whole werewolf-y idea of ownership, even if the rest of him apparently thinks it's just peachy. But wise or not, healthy or not, Isaac _is_ his, as much as anything, and that means the reverse is also true.

 

Between one blink and the next, Derek's eyes go from hazel to red, and he's across the hall, pinning Stiles to the wall. And oh, God, he's going to die. Except that Derek's thumb is exceptionally gentle as he strokes it along Stiles' jaw, which just creeps him out more.

 

“Ugh, okay, can you _please_ stop touching me. This is what we call Bad Touch, Derek.” He twists his head to get away from it, but Derek just grabs him on the chin and forces Stiles' to face him.

 

“You were mine, first.”

 

“Oh my god, did becoming an Alpha make you freakin' delusional?” He wonders how long this can go on before it all looks suspicious.

 

For the first time, Derek actually looks curious. “Why do you keep lying?”

 

“Excuse me? I know your stupid werewolf ears can hear my heart, so it should _clearly_ be telling you I'm being Honest Abe here.”

 

Derek shakes his head. “No one could tell anything from your heart right now, idiot. It's jackrabbiting too much.”

 

“Then take my word for it. I'm telling you the truth.”

 

Derek taps his nose again. “You keep forgetting. I smell it on you. The very first time we met. When I almost died and you saved me. When you tried to pimp me out to Danny. When I saved _your_ life. When you held me up in the pool. You practically reek.”

 

Holy hell. “Are you serious? I mean seriously? I know it's hard for you, but think with me for a minute. Do you know what all of those things have in common? Do you?” He weasels out from between Derek and the wall, tries to keep his body posture relaxed for the cameras. “They were _months_ ago. _Months_. Back before you went crazy! Before you tried to kill half my friends – and succeeded in some cases, let me remind you!

 

“Yeah, I had a crush. And then you turned into your freaking uncle. And you started beating up kids who thought you were gonna protect them. Do you remember when you told Scott you and him were brothers? Huh?” Rage is climbing up Stiles' spine again, hot enough that he doesn't care that he can tell Derek is getting furious as well. How _dare_ he think Stiles would ever, _ever_ want someone like that? How dare he make choices on Stiles behalf?”

 

“Is this how you treat your brothers? Huh?” He flings a hand at the door. “You knew he was broken. And you didn't even care. You just keep breaking him more, so he's easier for you to use. And this?” He gestures between the two of them. “This was dead before it even started. I _hate_ you. _Despise_ you. Right now I wish I hadn't gone back to pull you from the bottom of the pool, because I would have saved a whole lot of people a whole lot of pain.”

 

Derek's fangs are out. “You don't understand.”

 

“You're right. You're right, I don't. And I don't want to. I don't want to understand why you get off on your power trips. Why you like hurting people. Why Scott is still a decent human being, even when he became Alpha, and you're a big bag of dicks. Why Isaac is broken in a million pieces and crazy and still a better person than you or Erica or Boyd. And you know what, I don't even care. I don't. Because I don't _care about you_.”

 

Derek looks furious, but he also looks uncertain. Then he shakes his head. “You're lying. I smelled it on you in your room. When you were researching the kitsune.”

 

Stiles can't help it. He bursts out laughing. “Oh god. Really? That's what you were doing?” He remembers it. Derek pining him to the wall, Stiles' major freakout, the self satisfied look on Derek's face when he'd pulled away. “It was because you smelled Isaac. You were trying to check. To see. Jesus. Yeah, I was turned on. Because I was thinking about the _blow job_ Isaac had given me earlier. Not you. _Isaac_. So for the last time – what I want? Is in that room. Not out here. Yeah, he's broken. And yeah, you fucked him up in the head even more than his dad did, but he's _mine_. And neither of us belong to you.”

 

Derek is deceptively calm, in a way that makes Stiles take several steps back, toward the door. Whatever emotion he's radiating has the hair on the back of Stiles' neck standing up, and every instinct telling him to run. But there's nowhere to run to.

 

“Well. If that's how you feel.”

 

“It is,” Stiles says carefully, debating if he can get to the taser before Derek gets to him, or if it would even drop Derek at this point – he's heard stories of his and Boyd's confrontation with Mr. Argent and his hunters.

 

“I can't force you to tell the truth.” Holy mother of fuck. Stiles may as well have saved his breath. “And maybe Isaac has you. But you can't have him.”

 

“I don't think you -”

 

“He's mine, Stiles. He's my bite, my pack. Which means he belongs to me. You've seen him. You know he needs a leash. I give him that leash.”

 

“The only thing he needs is to get away from _you.”_ Stiles realizes Derek is slowly closing the gap between them, one minute shift at a time, and the strange, prickling sensation in his neck isn't going away.

 

“He's a wild dog. Do you know what happens to betas like that on a full moon? He needs me. Bruises or not, he can't survive without me.”

 

“Yeah, see, you're acting like you're making rational sense, but you're not. Because I know exactly what you're gonna do. And screw you. I can take care of Isaac just fine. I took care of Scott, didn't I?”

 

Derek smiles and shrugs. “He disobeyed. Packs rise or fall on obedience. Lessons have to be taught. And no, you can't. What? You think Scott will take him in? He won't. He can barely keep Jackson in line, he can't handle Isaac. And he won't poach from another pack, even he wants to.” Derek pulls his phone from his jacket. “Here. You wanna call and ask? You can.”

 

“Yeah, no thanks.” Maybe he's telling the truth, maybe he isn't, but Stiles wasn't planning on dragging Scott into this anyway. They'll have to talk, soon enough, about Scott's miserable fail at communication, but he knows Scott, knows he never would have done anything to purposely cause this clusterfuck. So he tamps down the anger and resentment he feels, and concentrates on the red bleed in Derek's eyes.

 

“Open the door, Stiles.”

 

“No.”

 

“Open it, or I'll rip it open.”

 

“Over my dead body.” As soon as the words are out, he knows he's made a mistake, but it's too late to call it back. He doesn't even get a chance to grab at his back pocket, before Derek is there, pressing him to the wall with a hand around his throat, that's squeezing just this side of too tight. Even if someone's watching the security feed, Stiles would be dead before they got here.

 

“That,” Derek snarls, “can be arranged.”

 

Before anything else can happen, there's a click, and Stiles' heart drops to the very tips of his toes when the door opens behind him. Oh God, no. No, no, no, no, no. But God isn't listening today. Isaac slips out and presses to the wall beside Stiles. He's dressed in his dirty jeans, and Stiles' t-shirt, but for whatever reason, the only thing Stiles can focus on is that his feet are bare. He needs shoes, Stiles thinks. He needs shoes.

 

Derek growls, a victorious sneer smearing across his face, and lets go of Stiles. “See, Stiles. Wolves like Isaac just need to have the right buttons pushed.”

 

Isaac doesn't look at either one of them, stares down at the floor as he speaks softly. “I'll go with you. Leave Stiles alone and I'll go back with you.”

 

“No.” Stiles moves to step in front of Isaac, but Isaac shifts away. “No, you can't.”

 

The amused smirk is back on Derek's face, but Stiles is too focused on Isaac to worry about that.

 

“You said -” Isaac still isn't looking at him, and Stiles can see the almost imperceptible rabbiting of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “You said I belonged to me, right? That means I get to choose. I get to choose what I do.” He finally looks up, but at Derek, not Stiles. “I'll come back to the pack. If you promise not to hurt Stiles.”

 

“Good boy.” Derek's tone is paternalistic, condescending, _insufferable_. “You know where you belong.”

 

Stiles throws his arm out to block Isaac's movement. “You can't. You know what he's going to do to you. Isaac -”

 

There's a twinge in his chest when Isaac turns to face him, because he thinks he's trying to tell him something with his eyes, but damned if Stiles can read it over the nausea in his stomach. “My choice, Stiles. He was going to hurt you.”

 

“Besides,” Derek is suddenly there, his hand curling around the back of Isaac's neck. “It's not like Isaac isn't used to it.”

 

Stiles loses it. “Fuck you.” He wrenches at Derek's hand on Isaac, and he must have surprised him, because he actually succeeds in throwing him off. With his other hand, he goes for the taser. “Fuck you in the -”

 

The elevator dings and they all freeze. Derek takes several steps back as the doors slide apart. Stiles mouth drops open and he blinks rapidly, because he's pretty sure he's seeing things. But no, that is most definitely his _dad_ stepping into the hall, in full uniform. And someone's with him. Another officer. A deputy.

 

Wait.

 

No.

 

It's Chris Argent.

 

A snorting sound pulls his eyes back to Derek, who's rolling  _his_ eyes so hard they might possibly fall out of his head. “Really, Chris? Playing dress up this week?”

 

His dad and Mr. Argent stop, just at the periphery of the little circle he, Isaac and Derek have somehow fallen into, and it's his father who answers. “With all the deaths in the department lately -” his dad gives the three of them a hard look, and oh god, what the hell? “- we've been a bit shorthanded. Chris was good enough to agree to a temporary deputization. To help me out on some official business. The hotel staff is being very cooperative.”

 

The stress on the word “official” is slight, but it's there, and Stiles knows it's deliberate; his dad has always had a much better grasp on subtlety than Stiles, and with one word he's let them all know that whatever happens here, happens in full view of the public.

 

Not that it stops Derek from trying. He still doesn't bother with Stiles' dad, still focuses on Chris. “This isn't your kind of business, Chris. This is...internal.” He's being careful with his words, at least.

 

Chris hums noncommittally before answering. “And you're right. If I were here for that. Let's just say I'm here as a...concerned parent. Who happened to have some spare ammunition to loan Mike.”

 

Stiles isn't sure, but he thinks Chris has just threatened to put a wolfsbane bullet in Derek. And when did he start calling his dad by his first name?

 

“A concerned parent. Right.”

 

Stiles' dad clears his throat. “I'm a little curious about something. I thought you boys -” he points between Stiles and Derek and Isaac, “ - were friends. But this...this is not looking friendly. Any more than you and Scott earlier. Are you gonna tell me this is about lacrosse, too?”

 

Stiles blindly reaches out for Isaac's hand and tugs him toward him. Isaac doesn't fight it, just lets Stiles pull him until he's shadowed behind Stiles' body. Isaac curves his palm around Stiles' hip and he begins to think they might actually make it out of this.

 

“Things change,” Stiles says. “And no, this isn't about lacrosse. This is about -”

 

“This is about the fact Isaac is my charge, Sheriff.” Derek talks right over Stiles. “And that he decided to take a trip without letting me know. I was worried. I realize it's awkward because Stiles is your son.” Derek is doing that smiling thing he did when they broke Isaac out of jail, sincerity oozing from every pore.

 

“Is that so?” His dad's face is expressionless, but there's a tiny smirk on Mr. Argent's, that is growing bigger by the second.

 

“Of course, Sheriff. Isaa -”

 

“No. I don't think so.” Holy shit, Stiles hasn't seen that look on his dad's face since he stole the police transport. It's pure fury. “I don't think that's what this is about at all. I'm pretty sure this is about the fact you beat the crap out of a kid you were supposed to take care of. And that Isaac and Stiles are so afraid of you that they ran from you as fast as they could, rather than tell anyone. Luckily, we at the sheriff's department aren't limited to frightened children for our information. And we've been made aware that this isn't the first incident since you've had custody of Isaac. Obviously, our duty is to investigate these allegations, regardless of any...special...circumstances.”

 

Derek has apparently decided to throw discretion to the wind, so while Stiles is staring open mouthed at his father, Derek is sneering at Mr. Argent.

 

“Really? This is the hill you're trying to climb? You know as well as I do that he's probably half-healed by now, and will be close to fully healed by the time you get him anywhere. This is a dead end for you, Chris.”

 

Mr. Argent just keeps smiling that funny little smile and doesn't reply, while Stiles' dad turns his attention to him and Isaac. “Isaac. Stiles.” Stiles has seen his dad with hundreds of suspects and witnesses, sneaked into the little room with the double mirror and watched him interrogate people. And he can tell by his body language, and the look on his face, that his father has already decided what he's going to do. It's the look he gets when he already has all the answers and he's directing the conversation exactly where he wants it to go.

 

“Hey, dad.” Isaac's breath is hot on the back of Stiles' neck, but he doesn't say anything.

 

“Are we pressing charges here?”

 

Stiles really, really would like to see Derek behind bars. But Derek's right...the chances of anything sticking are almost non-existent, and a werewolf behind bars...not good for anyone. Not to mention he  _is_ the Alpha, and without him, Erica and Boyd won't answer to anything but their own power. If Scott can't handle Isaac, there's no way he could handle those two.

 

“I don't...” He twists to face Isaac, to see if they're on the same page. Isaac gives a small nod, his hand tightening on Stiles hip. “No,” Isaac says over Stiles' shoulder. “I don't want to press charges.”

 

“But -” Stiles picks up, and his dad smiles, and nods, too, like he knows exactly what Stiles is going to say. And he does, because Stiles has seen his dad play this exact game with cases he knows he has no chance of getting a conviction of, because the kids are too afraid to talk, or there isn't enough hard evidence.

 

“But I'm sure Isaac will want to make a statement. And since I know how much you guys like to stay in the know, I bet the whole department can get a copy in their memo box. Just so they can keep a look out. Just in case Isaac, you know, gets a hangnail, or a flat tire, or, hey, accidentally gets into a fight with an unidentified assailant. Just so they can know where to look first.”

 

Mr. Argent has moved to lean against the wall, his entire posture that of someone watching something incredibly entertaining, but Stiles isn't fooled. He's seen Mr. Argent go from congenial to deadly in .5 seconds flat. Stiles' dad pulls a notepad from his front pocket and then digs a pencil out after it, starts making notes.

 

“I'm pretty sure that's exactly what's going to happen. And I'm sure Mr. Hale doesn't want to worry about Isaac having an unintentional accident while in his care, so why don't we go ahead and say we'll remove that burden from him and place him somewhere else. You can, of course, fight that, since we don't exactly have a legal right to do that permanently, but I have a feeling that paperwork might keep you tied up in court for years. Mr. Whittemore seems very concerned about the future of one of Beacon Hills most talented lacrosse players.”

 

The only reason Derek even has custody of Isaac is because Jackson had somehow gotten his father to pull all kinds of strings. Strings which, apparently, he's no longer willing to pull. Stiles' dad can sometimes be a scary, scary man, and Stiles isn't sure he's ever loved him more than he does right at this moment.

 

Derek is watching the exchange with narrowed, weighing eyes, and Stiles grins nastily at him. “You remember how fun it is to be the focus of a county wide manhunt. And that was when they just thought you'd killed someone.”

 

Derek steps toward him, and both Mr. Argent and his dad go for their holsters. Stiles holds up a hand, because he knows Derek's faces. And this is the face that means they've won. Derek leans in close, close enough that only Isaac and Stiles can hear him.

 

“You're making a mistake. He's a rabid dog, and one day he's going to bite your hand off.”

 

“Hmm. Yeah, I don't think so. There's only one rabid dog in this hallway, and it's not Isaac.”

 

Derek jerks back, and Stiles almost thinks he's gonna wolf out, but instead he smiles coolly. “We'll see.” Then he straightens his jacket and walks away, jostling Mr. Argent's shoulder as he passes by. Just before he disappears into the elevator, Mr. Argent calls out to him.

 

“You know where to find me when you're ready to renegotiate.”

 

Then the elevator doors close, and they're left alone. Stiles slumps back against Isaac and grabs his hand, pulls his arm to hook around his waist. So close. Way, way too close. If his dad and Mr. Argent - Stiles can't even examine the what ifs too closely. They make him tremble.

 

“Dad,” he says instead. Because he doesn't know what else to do.

 

His father looks at him for a long minute before shaking his head. “So. Werewolves.”

 

Stiles jerks upright and shoots Mr. Argent a look, and he, in return, raises an unrepentant eyebrow. “Kid, you're sleeping with a werewolf. He'll need to know sooner or later.”

 

Stiles can feel his face flushing, most likely beet red. “I...what?...sleeping...we aren't...we didn't...we just...How did you _find_ us, Dad?” When in doubt, change the subject.

 

“Oh. Isaac called me.”

 

“What?” Stiles spins around to look at Isaac so fast he almost falls. 

 

Isaac sucks on his bottom lip, his expression embarrassed. “I didn't...I didn't know what else to do. It wasn't going right. I could tell. I could...I could hear your heart. It was beating so fast. But you told your dad you would call him if you needed him. So, I thought I should -. His number's in your phone.”

 

He swings back to his dad and Mr. Argent. “But we're like two hours away!”

 

“Ah. That.” His dad smirks. “We were already in the city.”

 

“But -”

 

“Jay traced your phone as far as the city. We were just waiting on an exact address when Isaac called. Thank you, by the way.” He nods to where Isaac has moved to stand besides Stiles, his hands shoved in his pocket.

 

“You tracked my _phone_? But you promised -!”

 

“Son, I promised to do what you needed me to do. And that happened to be coming to get your ass out of the mess you were in. And don't think I didn't know you were lying.”

 

“But...wait. So, when you...?” He scrunches his nose at Isaac. “When you told Derek you would go with him...?”

 

Isaac shuffles his feet. “They were still too far away. And I tried to wait, but it was happening too fast. And he was going to  _hurt_ you. So I thought if maybe I could distract him until they got here -”

 

“Oh my god, you were lying.”

 

Isaac shrugs and one side of his mouth turns up. “Yeah. I was..ah...” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I was, you know...I was sca – my heart rate was already fast enough he couldn't tell.”

 

“Oh. Wow.” He doesn't know what his face looks like, but it must be something good, because Isaac breaks out in a full fledged smile, blushing furiously. It might be one of Stiles' favorite looks on him, and he kind of wants to kiss him, and so he does, completely forgetting the fact his dad doesn't actually know about him and Isaac, or that maybe this might not be something he wants to see.

 

Isaac makes it easy for him to forget a lot of things.

 

He doesn't think it lasts too long, or he hopes it doesn't last too long, because when his dad clears his throat, his hands are still just on Isaac's shoulders and Isaac's are on his waist and neck. He jerks back and sees his dad watching with raised eyebrows.

 

“Oh crap. Shit...shoot. Ah. So, dad, there was something I wanted to tell you...”

 

His dad rolls his eyes. “I already know.”

 

“Wait. You know? You knew?”

 

“I knew.”

 

“But -” Then he remembers something. Something in the form of the lethal hunter still leaning against the wall. “What the heck are you doing here?”

 

Mr. Argent smiles again, that creepy little smile that Stiles is never quite sure means he's amused or he's about to kill you. Stiles is gonna go with the former this time.

 

“You help your friends. I help mine.”

 

Stiles does a double take between his dad and Mr. Argent. “Wait...what? How are you two - ?”

 

His dad walks over and scrubs his hand over his hair. “You may be pretty good at keeping things secret, but I've had a lot more practice.” Then he sighs and rubs his face. “I need to get back so I can get all this going. You coming home?”

 

Stiles doesn't know how to say he's not ready for the conversation he knows is coming, that he's not ready to make any more decisions, that he just wants to curl up with Isaac and get him to actually sleep and be happy they survived. He's not quite ready to take this all back to Beacon Hills.

 

So, instead he says, “Um...we've already paid for the room? Can we just...until tomorrow?”

 

He holds his breath while his dad decides, watches him purse his lips and put his hands on his hips and examine both of them critically. Finally he sighs. “Fine. But I expect you back tomorrow afternoon. And we  _will_ be having that talk then. A long, extensive talk. Do you understand me? You  _and_ Isaac.”

 

The beady eyed stare he fixes them with has Stiles nodding frantically. “Yeah. Yeah, dad. Promise.”

 

“Oh, one more thing. Take a shower. You stink.”

 

“Oh. My. God. _Dad_!”

 

People think the Stilinski grin is the one Stiles gives when he's jubilant, or when he's especially pleased, or when he wants to comfort someone. But no, the Stilinski grin is the evil, evil smirk his father gives him before he turns on his heels and heads down the hall, Chris behind him.

 

“Wait. Wait, Dad.” Stiles runs the few steps to catch up and then throws his arms around his father. “Thank you,” he whispers in his ear. His dad hugs him back, just this side of painful.

 

“Don't ever do that to me again. Whatever is happening. Werewolves, vampires, those little martians from outer space. You _tell_ me, okay? We do these things together from now on.” Stiles shuffles his face against his dad's shoulder in the semblance of a nod, and then his dad loosens one arm and holds it out.

 

“Isaac? You want in on this?”

 

Stiles twists to see Isaac watching them, eyes wide. He actually seems to consider it for a second, before shaking his head and taking a step back.

 

“Alright,” his dad says gently. “We'll work on it.” He lets go of Stiles and then, at the last minute, leans down and whispers in his ear. “Remember the safe sex thing.”

 

“Argh, gross!” Stiles runs theatrically back a few steps. “Go away!”

 

He can still hear his dad and Mr. Argent howling with laughter, even after the elevator starts to descend.

 

Isaac is waiting at the door, already sliding the keycard through the lock. As soon as the get inside, Isaac pushes Stiles against the wall, presses his hands into his hips, and pushes his tongue inside his mouth.

 

* * * * * * * * 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And no, Sheriff Stilinski isn't actually leaving them all alone at the hotel >:-)


	5. Differentials

When Isaac finally gives him room to breath, Stiles gasps out “Oh my god, oh my god, you were so awesome!” It's all broken up, from him and Isaac continuing to chase after each other's mouths, but when he finally gets it out, Isaac shakes his head in denial.

 

“Uh uh. Uh uh. I wasn't. I was scared. I was so freakin' scared.” His hands are climbing inside Stiles' shirt, pressing and pawing and pushing, and unerringly returning over and again to his mark. It's the first time Isaac has ever openly admitted to being afraid. He keeps talking as Stiles mouths his way up his jaw.

 

“But I couldn't...I couldn't - If they hadn't come in time, I would have -”

 

Stiles shuts him up by biting at his lips. “You were _awesome_ ,” he says again. “And no, you wouldn't. I wouldn't let him. I'd have found some way...” Isaac scrapes teeth across his throat as Stiles tries to accurately verbalize what had gone through his mind in those seconds. It's ugly, but he says it anyway.

 

“I'd have found some way to kill him. I'd kill him before I let him touch you again. I _would_.” The words fall starkly between them, and Isaac's head snaps up. For an immeasurable moment, everything hangs in stillness as they stare at each other, wordlessly, the sound of their breathing a harsh noise in the air. Then it breaks, and Isaac's hands are on him, frantically tearing at clothes, while Stiles returns the favor.

 

This isn't...this isn't anything like earlier. There's no carefulness, no gentleness as they drag each other, tripping and stumbling, toward the bed. This is all greedy, all desperate, all not caring about cuts and bruises and scars and stitches; all just about _need_. Stiles knows what this is – relief that they're alive, adrenaline pumping and blood coursing, and it all needs some place to go – but it's just a meaningless string of syllables, as Isaac shoves him onto the mattress and straddles him, jerking Stiles' pants off and throwing them to join the rest of their clothes on the floor.

 

There's a flash fire of pain down Stiles' spine, and somewhere, deep in the back of his fogged up head, he feels a vague warning bell go off. But he can't focus on it, not when Isaac is biting at his shoulder, and spreading one large, slim fingered hand across his ribs, shifting and rubbing, as Stiles' drags his nails down his back.

 

It's at this moment he has a hint of understanding, of what Isaac means when he mumbles about there being two of him, because this Isaac is nothing like the Isaac from earlier. This Isaac doesn't tremble. This Isaac doesn't blush. This Isaac doesn't betray any of the fragileness Stiles knows is hiding inside, as he pins Stiles to the bed. Or maybe this is just another form of fragility.

 

Stiles fumbles around on the bedside table and comes up with the lube, offers it to Isaac. “You want to - ?” He is _so_ okay with the idea, so okay with pretty much anything Isaac wants at this point, good with anything that keeps that look on Isaac's face.

 

Isaac's eyebrows draw together and he shakes his head, just a little. “No...I - No. But can we – like this?” He plants his hands on Stiles' chest, leans over him until their faces almost touch.

 

Stiles just rolls his eyes, because please, yes, and thank you. And _God_...it's not that this time is better than before – well, maybe a little, because he doesn't make a mess of the lube, and he has a better idea of what Isaac likes and how to roll his hips to hit him just right – it's just...it's just different. He finally gets what topping from the bottom means, and they're _loud_ – their voice _and_ the way their bodies move together, and there's no over thinking this, no time to get lost in insecurities or worry if this is good for Isaac, because he can't even freaking _think_. And it doesn't matter anyway, because every little thing Isaac is experiencing is laid bare on his face, and from the way Isaac doesn't take his eyes from Stiles, he gets the feeling his face is doing the same thing.

 

This time Isaac loses it first, turning his head and biting his own shoulder as he comes, the choked scream he makes echoing in the room, despite his attempts to muffle it. The heat splashing across Stiles' stomach and the wet slick of Isaac's hair, as it curls into his neck, pushes him across the line, and he snaps his hips once, twice, and then arches up, his toes digging into the sheets when a sharp, broken noise rips from his throat and he comes, too.

 

Isaac slumps down across Stiles, rubbing his cheek across his collar bone. “Oh. Oh.”

 

Stiles' answering laugh is distressingly close to a giggle, and he nods. “Yeah.” Sex is awesome. Sex with Isaac is _incredible_. And they haven't even scratched the surface. Jesus there are so many things he wants to try. He shifts to get a hand in Isaac's hair, and the low key burn in his back becomes a shooting pain; now that endorphins aren't fogging his brain, he realizes what's happened.

 

“Crap.” Isaac sluggishly raises his head and cocks an eyebrow, and Stiles nudges him over. “Move for a sec.” When he complies, Stiles pushes himself to a sitting position. There are smears of blood on the sheets. Damn, damn, damn.

 

Isaac is staring at the red streaks, wide eyed, and Stiles has to snap his fingers in his face a few times to get his attention. He shifts so that Isaac can see the damage. “Is it bad?”

 

Isaac's voice is flat and emotionless when he answers. “Not really. A couple of the stitches pulled out at the top. It's just where they tore. Nothing reopened.”

 

_Oh good,_ Stiles means to say, but Isaac makes that same sound he made last night, that low, pained whine, and Stiles feels fingers trip lightly up the stitches. When he looks over his shoulder, Isaac has his eyes locked on the wound, a terrible expression on his face.

 

“Don't, okay? Don't.” He flips around and crosses his legs, so that he knees bracket Isaac's. “It's nobody's – You didn't do it.”

 

“I could have stopped it. You said so.”

 

_Fuck_. “I was mad, okay? I didn't... It's okay, alright? It's okay.” _I forgive you. I understand._ He wants to say that out loud, but it sounds condescending, even in his own head, and so he swallows it back down.

 

“I _smiled_ while she did it. She hurt you, and I let her, and I wanted to throw up, but I still _let_ her. You wouldn't have let her hurt me, even if you were scared.”

 

Stiles doesn't know how to make Isaac let it go, and he doesn't know how to make it better, so he just says stupidly. “It's okay.”

 

Out of nowhere, Isaac asks “Do you think I'm like my dad?” The sadness has faded from his eyes, replaced with something almost...academic. Curious.

 

“What? No! No.”

 

“I can read as well as the next person, you know. They say...” Isaac traces a pattern on the edge of the comforter. “They say kids who are abused usually turn out to be abusers. Even if they don't want to. I used to think...when my dad was beating the crap out of me, or, like, when I was locked in the freezer, I used to think I would never be like him. I would never hurt people like that.

 

“And then Derek came.” Isaac's lips twist into something ugly. “And I hurt Scott. And I hurt Allison. And I hurt you and Lydia and Jackson and anybody else I could. Because I _could_.”

 

“But you stopped. It's different. _Scott_ tried to kill me when he was first changed, and he's my best friend! But he stopped. And you stopped. You can _choose_. And you chose to stop.”

 

“Did I? Will I? I still want to sometimes. He's not wrong, you know. I am a rabid dog.”

 

“Shut up!” Stiles doesn't mean to yell, but he does it all the same. “Just shut up! Stop talking shit about yourself. You're not some animal, okay? And Derek's a dick.”

 

Isaac looks at him unblinking, and then solemnly nods. “Derek _is_ a dick.”

 

Stiles barks out a laugh, and lets the tension dissipate, even though he's well aware that Derek's assitude is the only thing in his brief rant that Isaac has agreed with. But Isaac wasn't broken in a day, and Stiles doesn't have any magical powers to fix him in a day, or a few words. Stiles is just a kid. They're both just kids. He stands up and grabs Isaac's hand, tugging him to his feet as well.

 

“Okay.” He looks between the two of them and grimaces, and then makes a worse face when he takes in the condition of the bed. Comforter: Disgusting. He rips it off while Isaac watches in bemusement. Fitted sheet: Ew. Just...ew. That goes, too. The pillows are in pretty decent shape, and the top sheet had been kicked to the foot of the bed and been spared most of the mess, so he smooths it over the mattress.

 

“Voila.” He waves his hand expansively. “Brand new bed.”

 

“Oh. Good.” Isaac acts like he's about to sit back down and Stiles flings himself in front of the bed.

 

“No, no, no! Shower first! Don't give me that look – you can rub up on me all you want after, but, babe, we're gross. Fluids are drying in places they do not belong, and if my dad can smell us, it's definitely time. So come on, and then we can order room service. I think we need calorie replacement.”

 

He realizes Isaac is studying him, his head cocked and his eyes narrowed.

 

“What? Seriously, we have to shower.”

 

Isaac bites his bottom lip. “That's the second time you've called me that.”

 

“Called you what?”

 

“Babe.”

 

“Oh. _Oh_.” Stiles face is burning; it's on freaking fire. His stupid mouth. “I didn't realize...I can totally stop. Sorry.”

 

Isaac shrugs and shakes his head. “No. I like it.” He heads toward the bathroom, while Stiles gets distracted by watching his ass as he walks away. It's only when he disappears around the corner that Stiles shakes out of his funk and run-walks after him.

 

Stiles wants to weep at the necessity of unbandaging all of his earlier work, but cleaning and disinfecting the wounds seems to have kickstarted Isaac's healing into overdrive; some of them are completely closed over, and the rest are close. Isaac's shirt is still on the floor from his earlier bath, along with a wadded up towel. Housekeeping is obviously not his forte.

 

They don't have sex in the shower. Partly because Stiles has visions of slipping and falling and being rushed to the hospital in the most embarrassing circumstances possible – excepting freaky Richard Gere gerbil accidents – and partly because Stiles is stuck on the fringes of the spray, doing his best to keep his remaining stitches dry. They touch a lot, though, like they've been starved for it forever, and now finally get the chance to glut. And really, that's pretty close to the truth.

 

Stiles washes Isaac, and Isaac washes Stiles, and it's when he's painstakingly soaping up Stiles' stomach – running the washcloth round and round until there's a thick lather circle on his abdomen – that Stiles remembers he has questions for Isaac.

 

“Hey, what were you talking about earlier? When we were, you know, and you said something about the, uh, the wolf liking what was happening?” It's weird, a little, because Isaac has all these different parts, but they're all still him, and Stiles needs to know, has to understand.

 

Isaac ducks his head, and then shakes it, which is clear enough Isaac-speak for _Nope, not talking, embarrassed as fuck, drop it._

 

“No, man, come on,” Stiles cajoles. “Tell me. You're not gonna freak me out. You know that, right? There's nothing you can say that would freak me out.” Which is probably a lie, but since what he really means is _there's nothing you can say that would freak me out enough to not want you_ , he figures it's a white one and so it's okay.

 

Isaac stares fixedly at Stiles stomach, at where he's still circling the washcloth, over and over. He finally answers, though, his voice rising higher and higher as he goes along. “I liked, um, you were...you were touching everywhere. You were marking everywhere.” He says the last bit in a rush, wrinkling his nose and looking up to see Stiles' reaction.

 

Which, really, he should have looked _down_ if he wanted to get a good eyeful of how Stiles felt about the idea.

 

“That's, uh, that's...should that be turning me on as much as it is?” He's only half-joking, and Isaac gets a look that says he's seriously considering starting something right then and there, but then his stomach growls.

 

“Food,” Stiles breathes. “We should eat.” Because at this rate they're going to waste away, and really, he has _plans_ that can't be interrupted by starving related death.

 

There's drying off, and a groping session by the sink, and it's another ten minutes before they make it back to the bedroom, out of breath, but squeaky clean. Stiles flops across the bed, drags the phone and menu over, and proceeds to order enough food to feed an army, or a teenage boy and an adolescent werewolf.

 

While they wait, Isaac settles on his belly beside him, and Stiles assumes he thinks he's being subtle when he hooks one leg over Stiles' and his hand starts flitting from neck to hip to shoulder to thigh. Stiles doesn't say anything, just shifts closer and wriggles until his foot in tucked underneath Isaac's far ankle and and his head is resting on his back. It shouldn't be so comfortable, lying skin to skin and naked with another person, but it is, and Stiles can't find a single about which to be awkward.

 

After awhile, he somehow migrates to laying on top of Isaac, his front to Isaac's back, and while Isaac's fingers tap out some obscure rhythm on the bedspread, Stiles rests his chin on Isaac's head and surveys the mess they've made of the room. Clothes and sheets and blankets litter the floor at varying intervals, and Isaac must have dug through his backpack when he was looking for a shirt, because the contents are flung out in a wide arc that speaks of panic and desperation.

 

Stiles zeroes in on the composition notebook that sits near the foot of the bed. He's seen glimpses of it here and there, when Isaac is retrieving changes of clothes, or pulling out school books for homework, but Isaac has never opened it, at least not in front of Stiles. Without thinking, he scrambles off of Isaac and reaches down over the side of the bed.

 

“Hey, what is th -”

 

Stiles' fingertips barely brush the cover before Isaac, faster than Stiles would have thought possible, darts a hand out and grabs the notebook. He pulls it underneath him, wedging it between his chest and the bed.

 

“It's nothing.”

 

It's so clearly _not_ nothing, because Isaac's fingers are white knuckled where he's gripping it, but Stiles refuses to challenge him, and backtracks quickly, drawing his hand back and moving to give Isaac space.

 

“I'm sorry. It's yours. I shouldn't have assumed -”

 

He trails off, because he can see Isaac forcing himself to relax, finger by finger, and muscle by muscle. He shakes his head and takes a quick breath; carefully pulls the notebook from the shelter of his body. “No,” he says. “No, it's okay. I didn't mean - I just reacted. You can...you can see it.” He holds it out uncertainly, but Stiles doesn't reach to take it.

 

Instead he asks, “What is it?”

 

Isaac licks his lips and drums his fingers over the cover. “My mom...before she...before she di – before she died -”

 

Except for that first day, Isaac has never spoken a word about his mother, and Stiles stops breathing, afraid he's going to do something to disrupt the flow of Isaac's words.

 

“She used to write down all the things she was going to do one day, or the places she was going to go. Sometimes she'd do it with me. Um...when we knew she...when we knew she was dying, she told me I should still do it. For me. And I did. For a long time. But not..not in awhile.”

 

Stiles can read between the lines. Isaac hasn't touched this notebook since Derek turned him.

 

“It doesn't matter anyway.” Isaac's smile is tight and doesn't reach his eyes. “It's stupid. Just some stupid kid thing. Stupid fairy tales.”

 

“What?” Stiles makes an incredulous face. “No way, man! It's awesome. We should totally do that.” At the question in Isaac's eyes, Stiles expounds. “We should totally write down all the shit we're gonna do when we graduate. When we get out of here.”

 

“We're...getting out of here?”

 

“Well, I mean, not right away. There's school, and my dad, and we're still, you know, minors. But yeah, we're gonna get out of here.” The reality of that slowly solidifies in Stiles mind, and it's not nearly as scary as he would have expected. Yeah, he'd miss a lot of stuff – Scott, his dad, the way the woods smelled in the spring – but there's no way Isaac will put himself back together here.

 

“So yeah, we should definitely have a whole list of shit we're gonna do.”

 

Isaac looks at him warily, like he thinks this is some sort of trap, that maybe Stiles is just waiting for him to agree before laughing in his face, but he slowly nods and pushes the notebook infinitesimally closer to Stiles.

 

Stiles waves it away again. “Nah, that's you and your mom's. Hang on.” He slips off the bed and retrieves his own backpack, and rustles around in it until he finds the composition book he's been using for Ms. Cameron's required reading journal. He rips out the first few, used pages – no big loss, he's so far behind, due to supernatural distractions, that he's never going to catch up anyway – and holds the newly blank book up triumphantly.

 

“Perfect.”

 

He pulls out a black pen and scrawls his name on one of the lines on the cover before holding the notebook and pen out to Isaac. “Your turn.”

 

He's moving into the ridiculous now, but he doesn't care, because Isaac's lips are twitching upward, and he's going along with it, grabbing the pen and writing _Isaac Lahey_ right beneath Stiles' chicken scratch, in that elegant script that made Stiles' look like a second grader's handwriting in comparison. When he's done, he drops pen and notebook on the bed.

 

“Happy?”

 

“Yep.” Stiles sprawls back over on his stomach and opens the notebook. “Okay, we should definitely... _definitely_...go to Disney World. I mean, I've been to Disney Land, but everyone knows Disney World is ten times better.”

 

“I haven't been to either.”

 

“Oh, then oh, yeah, we are totally putting that in the book.” He jots it down and then looks at Isaac expectantly. Isaac opens his mouth and then closes it again, then repeats the process three more times. Stiles just waits him out, because even after everything, Isaac hasn't magically turned into a _sharer_ , probably because he's too used to having to measure out each word as to whether it would get him hit or not. Finally he takes a deep breath and blurts it out all at once.

 

“I want to go ziplining in the Amazon.”

 

Stiles clicks his tongue in approval. “ _Excellent_. We are _so_ doing that.” He writes it down before chewing on the end of the pen for a few seconds. “Stonehenge. We're gonna go to Stonehenge.”

 

They go on like that for the next half hour or so, taking turns, and their ideas range from the mundane ( _Empire State Building_ , says Stiles,) to the permanent (Isaac wants tattoos,) to the fantastical ( _North Pole,_ Stiles spits out, and then tackles Isaac and screams _mush mush_ when he rolls his eyes.) Isaac's language slowly shifts to match Stiles', changing from _I_ , to _we_ , and Stiles feels like they're painstakingly building a safehouse, one brick at a time.

 

It's when Stiles is writing down _Hike the Appalachian Trail_ , that there's a knock on the door, and a muffled voice announces, “Room Service!”

 

“Oh thank God,” Stiles groans, because the grumbling in their bellies has been the musical accompaniment for the last hour, and a clear reminder that the only thing they've had to eat all day is a burger and fries. His stomach drops a little when he realizes he has no idea when, before that, was the last time Isaac ate. How long was he lying on the concrete?

 

“Just a minute!” he yells in the direction of the door, stumbling around for his jeans as Isaac hastily thrusts his legs into his own. He finds them a second later, and is pulling them on when the knock repeats, insistent and loud. “Coming!” he says again, and Jesus, rude much? His pants are starting to feel grimy, even though he only put them on this morning, and he doesn't want to think about the grossness of Isaac's, so he doesn't even bother with his shirt at this point, just takes the twenty or so steps between the bed and the door, stopping to grab a couple of bucks from his wallet.

 

Because he's not stupid, he checks the peephole first, and then he's swearing under his breath and yanking the door open. “What the fu -” he cuts the word off as his natural reticence to curse around adults kicks in.

 

Mr. Argent is standing in the hallway, the tray of food in his hands, and a smirk on his face.

 

“What are you doing here,” Stiles hisses.

 

Mr. Argent doesn't react, except for one raised eyebrow. “You didn't really think your father would leave you alone, did you? We just needed to let the hotel know you'd have a police escort for the remainder of your stay. I was going to tell you, but -” He looks over Stiles' shoulder and the other eyebrow cants up to join the first - “you sounded a little...busy.”

 

There's a choking noise behind him and Stiles turns to see Isaac frozen in the act of pulling on Stiles' shirt, his face a gorgeous combination of mortification and horror, and a red blush painting up and down his torso. Mr. Argent's smirk widens, curling up at the corners, and why was it that Stiles had never noticed his resemblance to the Grinch? Christmas is ruined forever.

 

He glares at Mr. Argent and jerks the tray from his hands, barely keeping from wobbling under the weight of all the food he's ordered. “Why are you doing this? And don't say it's because you care. I've been around all those times you've tried to kill Isaac.”

 

Mr. Argent sobers, levity exchanged for seriousness. “Even adults make mistakes, kid. Those of us that are smart, learn from them. Besides, your dad's a friend.”

 

Since _when_? He feels Isaac come up behind him and he holds Mr. Argent's stare as Isaac blatantly nuzzles the back of his neck. It's a statement, or a test, or something he can't exactly define, but knows is important, just like it's important that Mr. Argent's expression doesn't change at all.

 

Stiles' arms are starting to tire from holding the tray, so he finally snaps, “I don't trust you.”

 

Mr. Argent makes a humming sound and nods. “Probably a smart idea. _But,_ you can trust this: I'll do my best to make sure Isaac is safe from Derek.”

 

“But _why_?” He just really...he really can't comprehend why Mr. Argent cares at all. The man can barely stand the fact that Scott has become more or less a permanent fixture in Allison's life.

 

Instead of answering, Mr. Argent gives that small, enigmatic smile he's so good at, plucks the dollar bills from Stiles' fingers, and reaches for the doorknob. As he's closing it, he says, “Try to keep it down. You have neighbors. Oh, and I ate your pie.”

 

The door snicks shut and Stiles blinks blankly. Isaac leans over to peer at the tray, and says sadly, “He really did.”

 

* * * * * * *

They eat. And they eat. And they eat. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, until they're stuffed full, and groaning, and darkness has begun to gather outside the windows. They've just finished comparing food baby bellies when Isaac yawns, loud and wide. It seems to catch him off guard, if the way his eyes go rounded is any indication, but Stiles is too busy yawning after him to comment.

 

It's not _that_ late, but the day has been long in its own way, and Stiles doesn't miss how Isaac's eyes are starting to droop and his limbs are going loose as he stretches out on the floor. But he's still struggling. Struggling to stay awake, from the need to stay alert, or from reflex or from something Stiles still can't quite guess at, but Isaac needs sleep, and Stiles is damn sure _he_ requires sleep, so this needs to be dealt with now.

 

“Come on,” he grabs Isaac's hand and they clamor to their feet. “Lay down with me.” Isaac doesn't protest, or resist, just strips down to his boxers at the same time Stiles does, and then throws himself down on the bare mattress. Stiles takes a minute longer, because he walks around and turns all the lights off, but then he gingerly flops to his back on the bed. Isaac curls around him, one leg crooked over his and a hand tucked into Stiles' armpit on the other side. His free hand plays over Stiles' chest, then presses hard on his mark, as if it's an anchor that grounds him.

 

Stiles wraps the sheet around them, and then drags his hand through Isaac's hair, over and over again. There's no real sound, not for a long time, just the quiet puffs of air from their mouths and noses, and then Isaac finally says, quiet and small, “I'm tired.”

 

It seems to encompass so much - more than just the physical need for rest, more than just the aches in his body that Stiles is willing to bet he still feels, and every part of him breaks, then reforms around a distinctly Isaac shaped space inside him.

 

His lips are pressed against Isaac's curls when he speaks. “Then you should sleep.”

 

Isaac sighs, soft and low, and full of surrender. “Okay.” And just as fast as Stiles had turned the lights off, Isaac goes slack and soft against him, falling even closer into his body than he'd been before. Stiles ducks his head to brush his mouth against the corner of Isaac's and then falls asleep, too, so quickly he doesn't even recall it happening.

 

Isaac twitches and jerks throughout the night, mumbles and shudders and one time yells, but he doesn't wake, and Stiles doesn't think he'll remember Stiles settling him back down with a hand on a shoulder, or a hip, or a quiet _shh, it's okay_ , whispered in his ear. He does wake up once, far, far too early in the morning, probably due to the fact the room is freezing and they've kicked the sheet away. Stiles protests, and covers them back up, and coaxes Isaac to sleep for another few hours, until check out looms and they have no choice but to roll out of bed, bleary eyed and yawning.

 

They don't bother showering, just gather up their things and stuff them back in their satchels, then redress, once again, in clothes that are _definitely_ starting to smell. But it's okay, because they'll be home in a couple of hours, where clean clothes are bounteous, and fresh sheets can be had. Before they leave the room, Stiles hooks his hand around the back of Isaac's neck and stretches up to kiss him. Isaac returns the gesture, licking into Stiles mouth in a way that quickly turns wet and dirty. For a minute things start spiraling out of control, but then there's a loud bang on the door.

 

“Save it for later!”

 

Chris is waiting for them when they open the door, looking as bright and bushy tailed as he had last night, although Stiles knows he couldn't have actually slept, and Stiles needs the details of whatever crossroads deal he'd made to manage that.

 

“Alright, you two, let's go. Oh, and your father said straight home, or else.” He gives Stiles a hard look, like his dad has filled him in on all the details of his propensity to drag his feet to avoid uncomfortable conversations. And really, what the hell?

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but his heart isn't really in it. No matter what's coming, and no matter what compromises they have to make, it's going to work, because there simply is no other acceptable alternative.

 

They're going to be okay.

 

He's going to make sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more oneshot in the official series for this 'verse, but be forewarned that I have other bits and pieces of Isaac and Stiles' future that I want to write about, so they'll likely be popping up from time to time.


End file.
